


Empty Promises

by Laora



Category: Danny Phantom
Genre: Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, all of the angst, old story crossposted from FFN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2017-04-03
Packaged: 2019-06-09 17:01:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15272133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laora/pseuds/Laora
Summary: He is gone...suddenly, nothing matters anymore.





	1. t h e b u l l y

**Author's Note:**

> For some reason this never got posted to AO3 either - sorry for the update spam, anyone who has me on alert! This thing has 5 chapters

_ He swears that if he makes it out of here alive, he will make it up to every person he has ever bullied. _

* * *

He's out on the school grounds with the rest of the student body, staring in horrified wonder as Casper High burns. The ghost dragon has flown away, but the chaos remains—people are screaming, running, crying all around him. He barely notices; he's entranced by the dancing flames, green and deadly, as they roar ever higher into the sky.

One shrill voice finally rips him from his trance, and he turns, trying to find the source of the horrible noise. He sees Manson; her normal, apathetic scowl has been replaced with something he can only describe as _  sheer terror.  _ She's screaming for Foley, asking if anyone's seen him—

And then he realizes.

Tucker Foley is trapped in his locker.

Fenton's home sick today. Deprived of his usual target, Dash had decided to pick on Foley instead, cornering him when Manson was elsewhere and stuffing him in his locker. He had walked off as usual, punching the locker for good measure and chatting animatedly with Kwan as they headed for English. Nothing,  _ nothing _ , had indicated that today would be anything but a regular, boring Tuesday.

Then, not five minutes later, the fire-breathing ghost dragon had attacked. Dash had done the only thing that made sense at the time: run like hell with the rest of his classmates to the nearest emergency exit. The entire school had evacuated in under two minutes. Now, he can only wait in numb terror for the firefighters to contain the terrible inferno.

( _ Nobody notices the streak of monochrome as it hurtles into the school.) _

Manson stops short only a few feet from Dash, fills her lungs, and screams her friend's name to the heavens. And suddenly, the far-away fact that Foley  _ isn't outside _  is driven home.

(It's his fault.)

(Everything is his fault.)

He could tell a teacher. He could tell one of the firefighters. He could tell Manson. He could even wait for Danny Phantom to show up and save the day. ( _ If only he had been more observant.) _

But he acts on instinct, breaking away from Paulina's death grip to run toward the nearest hole in the crumbling school wall.

He's never appreciated, before now, just how dangerous a burning building is. The smoke is suffocating him and stinging his eyes, and he can feel the otherworldly flames begin to burn his skin.  _ But he can't stop now;  _ nobody else knows, and he's come so far already;  _ Foley's still there and burning and dying and— _

(Everything is his fault. Why couldn't he realize that before?)

He coughs again; the smoke is overwhelming, and the strange, ghostly flames seem hotter than normal ones. He vaguely remembers a lesson from grade school _ —smoke rises; stay low to the ground in a fire— _ but if he's near the ground then he has to crawl, and he can't get to Foley's locker as quickly (he can't even remember where it is—is it 357, or 537, or...?)and for all he knows Foley could be burnt to a crisp already because he was _  too damn arrogant _  to realize just how dangerous his favorite pasttime is _ — _

The fire roars to new heights, and something cracks above his head, but he doesn't dare look up. He just keeps running, hoping that some supernatural force will keep him from getting crushed.  _ He has to save Foley. _  He may be ( _ may have been _ ) a bully, but never,  _ never _  will he become a murderer. He can't possibly answer to the Foley family, to Manson and Fenton and Lancer and everyone else who would hold him accountable ( _ and rightly so _ ) for the boy's death. Contrary to popular belief, he  _ does _  have a heart, and he's either going to get to Foley or die trying.

He hears something _ — _ a human voice _ — _ behind him, but he doesn't turn to look or even slow down. If the adults are trying to get him to come back, he has to ignore them _ —he has to— _ he can't have Foley's death on his conscience for the rest of his life; it would haunt him forever _ — _

_ " _ Dash! DASH!"

He stops short as he recognizes the voice.  _ Danny Phantom is here. _  He turns to face the ghost, a cool rush of relief flowing through him at the sight of the glowing boy. "Danny Phantom!" he calls, seeing the boy's haggard face sag in relief. "Tucker Foley's trapped in his locker, I've gotta _ — _ "

"I already got Tucker outside," Phantom says quickly, running ( _ running? _ ) toward him. "Everyone but you is safe. C'mon, we have to—"

There is another  _ crack _  from above them. He cannot bring himself to lift his head, but Phantom is brave; he glances upward, his eyes widening. He grabs his companion's wrist and turns them intangible just as part of the ceiling caves in. Lockers from the second floor come crashing down at deafening volumes, but Dash cannot look at the destruction around him. ( _ If he sees it, it's real. If he only hears it then it's all in his head, he's going to wake up soon, they aren't about to die—) _  Instead, he decides to focus his gaze on the ghost boy in front of him.

Phantom's grip on his wrist is nearly painful, and his eyes are squeezed tight, as if the usually-simple task of intangibility is costing him much of his energy. There are dark bruises under his eyes, and his face _ — _ odd as it sounds _ — _ is paler than normal. All in all, the ghost looks like he has caught that nasty strain of the flu going around town...which is odd, because Dash doesn't think ghosts can catch human diseases.

Eventually, the intangibility fades, and the two of them stare around at the wreckage of what was once the science wing. "We have to get out of here." Phantom sounds exhausted, spent; his glowing aura seems to be fading by the minute, and his eyes are a far cry from their usual neon green. "The nearest exit's over _ — _ here _ — _ let's get going _ — _ "

He pulls Dash along behind him as he runs the way both of them came from. Dash wants to ask why he can't fly them through the roof, why he can't phase them through the charred remains of the school to safety, but Phantom beats him to it.

"Can't _ — _ phase through ghost fire," he gets out between labored pants. "And in my state, flying's out of the question..."

He almost asks him what he means by that, but then he realizes.  _ Phantom really is sick. _  He's never really thought about how much energy all those powers must use up; from just watching all the ghosts soar around, shooting ecto-blasts at each other and phasing through solid concrete, anyone would think that it's the easiest thing in the world. But he himself had just recovered from the flu two days prior, and he had wanted to do nothing but lie in bed and be miserable. For Phantom to be here at all in that state is impressive indeed.

The flames are reaching ever higher, and Dash doesn't even want to think how terrible their burns will be when it's all said and done. Phantom voices no complaints, even as his uniform is covered in soot and gashes _ ,  _ even as he's coughing every few seconds ( _ ghosts have to breathe? _ ) _ ,  _ even as he looks on the verge of falling over in exhaustion. He doesn't remember running this long from the safety of the outdoors, but that might have something to do with the fact that they have to climb over debris every few feet and watch their footing, lest they fall and become victims of the supernatural flames.

After several minutes ( _ that feel like hours _ ), he finally catches sight of the entrance he had used to get into the school. It's a small hole, maybe five feet tall and two feet across, but he had fit through it. He's about to yell encouragingly to Phantom that they're almost there _ — _ because it looks like he could really use it _ — _ before there's yet another  _ crack _  above their heads. Dash tries to keep on running _ — _ that's what he's done every other time, and it's worked so far _ — _ but Phantom gives a sort of strangled yelp and grabs Dash around the middle, holding him back.

He watches in horror as an entire row of lockers crashes to the ground not five feet from where they're standing. If Phantom hadn't stopped him...

"Let's keep going," the ghost rasps out, his face paler than ever. "C'mon, just another hundred feet and we're safe..."

It's obvious that Phantom's trying to keep his bravado strong, trying to stay brave for Dash, but he can clearly see his own terror mirrored in the ghost's face. It's only now that he realizes, with sudden, startling clarity, that Phantom looks no older than himself. He's dead, yes, and brave and heroic and strong and all those other wonderful things ( _ that Dash can never really be) _ , but in the end, he's just another high school freshman.  _ Fourteen years old. I wonder how he died... _

The two of them start running again as the fire roars higher, getting ever closer to the opening that will save their lives.  _ Ninety feet...eighty feet...climb over a toppled janitor's cart...seventy feet... _

There's another  _ crack _  from above their heads, but Dash has never had the strength of mind to look up, and it seems that Phantom's senses have been dulled by illness and exhaustion. It takes him a full second to look at whatever the ceiling is going to drop on their heads, and by that time, it's too late. Dash feels himself being shoved harshly to the right, crashing through a charred wall and hitting his head on the ground. He hears a strangled scream and sits up slowly, wondering if the dragon's returned and wants a round two. When he glances around and realizes Phantom isn't in his immediate vicinity, though, he slowly looks to where they had been standing, his stomach twisting in knots as he realizes _ — _

_ There aren't supposed to be lockers there... _

It takes him a moment to realize the implications of that, but when he does, he's up in an instant, crawling through the wall and tripping over the floor in his haste to reach that spot. He knows what he's going to see; he  _ expects _  it; but for several seconds, he can't bring himself to look down at the awful sight in front of him.

Danny Phantom _ —incredible, unstoppable Danny Phantom— _ is half-crushed by the lockers, lying on his back with his legs and more than half of his torso underneath the massive metal blocks. He's taking short, gasping breaths; his eyes are squeezed tight; the hand that isn't crushed is balled into a badly-shaking fist.

But Dash doesn't see any of that; he can only stare in horrified disbelief at the lockers that have buried his hero. It should be _ him _ , not Phantom, under those lockers. Phantom is the savior of the town, protector of humans; Dash is just the local jerk who picks on other people for fun. Phantom should have exterminated  _ him _  to protect the town.

And now, he's lying on the floor of the school, sixty feet away from safety, sacrificing himself for the biggest asshole in Amity Park.

"Phantom?" He tries to get the ghost's attention, kneeling on the floor ( _ it's so hot but he pays it no mind—that's the least of his worries right now _ ) as Phantom's breathing slows, his fist relaxes, his eyes open slightly.  _ Is he...dead? _

He reminds himself quickly that ghosts shouldn't be able to die; but then, ghosts also shouldn't have to breathe, and ghosts shouldn't be able to catch the flu. He's starting to think of Phantom as a human, which doesn't make much sense...but everything he's ever seen of him has been distinctly  _ human _ , not  _ ghost. _  It makes it even harder to accept the fact that a _ human _  who is  _ his age _  just sacrificed himself to push him out of the way of a horrible, crushing death.

There are so many strange things about Danny Phantom that Dash can't even begin to comprehend, but he can't worry about those now. He needs to focus on the fact that Phantom is  _ moving— _ he's moving when by all rights he should be dead or passed out or too weak to do anything but cry. So Dash shifts to position himself in front of Phantom's face _ ,  _ because even if ghosts aren't supposed to be able to feel much pain at all, it can't be easy to move when half of your body is stuck under massive amounts of metal.

The ghost boy's head is tilting toward Dash now, and he flinches at the pure  _ agony _  concentrated in those dulling green eyes. All of the things he's learned about ghosts _ — _ from looking it up on the Internet to listening to the Fentons ramble on about them _ — _ fly out the window as he realizes that  _ Phantom is in pain.  _ Ghosts can feel pain, or else Phantom is the _  best damn actor Dash has ever seen,  _ because that look in his eyes can't be faked; he's never seen anyone look so tortured as Phantom is now.

And it's all his fault.

"Phantom? Can you hear me?" he tries again, because he can't think of much else he can do. He has a fleeting, insane thought that he could try to tip the lockers off him so he can carry the ghost outside, but the huge block of metal has to weigh at least a thousand pounds, and Dash knows he's not that strong. So he does the next best thing, trying to talk to the ghost whose entire world is agony, trying to figure out if there's a way for him to set himself free before they both die here.

(Because he's starting to think that Phantom is more human than ghost.)

"D _ - _ Dash...you all right...? _ "  _ Phantom croaks, and quite honestly, he's surprised that the ghost is talking at all. Surprised that he's  _ conscious. _  Because now Dash can see that his sunken eyes are sitting atop cheekbones more defined than they had been before. And if he has  _ cheekbones, _  that means he has  _ knees _  and _  femurs _  and a  _ pelvis _  and a  _ spine _  and dozens of other bones that could be _ —that are—smashed to pieces beneath those lockers. Dash wants to be sick. _

"M'fine," he says, barely suppressing a sob. Of  _ course _  the hero would put everyone else ( _ even the lowlife assholes _ ) before himself. "C-can you phase out from under there, or anything?" It's as if the fire isn't there anymore; he certainly can't feel the heat; his entire being is focused on the dying ( _ dying?)  _ ghost lying in front of him.

Phantom gives a humorless chuckle, but it doesn't last long; it seems to agitate some part of him that is broken beyond repair. He goes into an uncontrollable coughing fit (Dash can't even  _ imagine _  how much pain that must cause him), and soon he's coughing up blood, which even  _ Dash _  knows is a bad sign, and _ — _

_ Wait. _  Phantom's coughing up blood?

When he looks more closely at the sickening mixture on Phantom's chin and jumpsuit, it's not all blood. It's mostly made up of that green stuff _ — _ ectoplasm _ — _ with some red,  _ human _  blood swirled throughout. But the fact that Phantom _ —a ghost— _ is coughing  _ blood— _

_ Is he actually human? _  Dash can only wonder as he waits anxiously for the coughing fit to subside, begging Phantom silently to answer his question in the affirmative. The two of them will make it out of here, even if Dash has to carry the ghost boy in his arms. Phantom has saved his life _  (so many lives) _  too many times to count over the past several months; it's the least he can do to save him from such a horrible death.

Eventually, Phantom's fit subsides, his chest coming back under his control as he stares with unfocused eyes up at Dash. "Can't _ — _ phase," he chokes out, barely able to shake his head. His voice is horribly tight and strained with pain. "Too...tired...can't use powers..." He glances down at the ectoplasm-blood dripping to the floor, and a sort of half-smile appears on his battered face. "See...losing it...changing back..."

Dash doesn't have the slightest idea of what he means by that last part, but he understands the most important problem: all of Phantom's powers are dead. So if Phantom can't get himself out, he'll just have to try and get him free from the lockers himself. He stands up suddenly, with purpose. He doesn't know if it's the fact that it's something he  _ has  _ to do, or if it's just pure terror driving him on, but he goes to the side of the block of lockers, gets a grip on it  _ (he barely notices as his palms blister from the heat) _ , and heaves as hard as he can.

It barely moves a millimeter, but he is not perturbed. The fact that he could make it move at all _ — _

"Dash." Phantom's weak, strained voice stops him short, barely audible over the continuing crackle of the flames and the skittering beat of Dash's own heart. "Even if you _ — _ free me, my bones...and I think something...got me...through my gut..." He coughs wetly again, proving his point. More of his lifeforce ( _ a sick bastardization of Christmas _ ) spills onto his jumpsuit and the floor, and he glances at it with wide, terrified eyes before continuing. "I'm dying...please...you need to get out."

"Not without you!" Dash lunges at the lockers again with the strength of desperation, causing them to move a couple inches to the side. Only when he hears a sickening, unholy scream from Phantom does he stop short, rushing around to face the ghost again.

"Told you...it's...attached," he gasps, his face the palest shade of white Dash has ever seen. "I'm not...gonna make it. Just...please..."

The horribly desperate look on Phantom's face is the only thing that stops him from trying to think of some _ —any— _ way to free Phantom. If he can get paramedics here in time, maybe they could somehow _ — _

"Can you...pass on...messages?" Phantom asks, his voice fading quickly. "Please...not much time...you have to...out..."

He's obviously losing coherence fast, and Dash can't possibly deny him something like this. (Even if he'll survive, if only because ghosts  _ can't _  die...) "Of course..." His whole body is shaking in unparalleled terror as he kneels next to Phantom, unsure of what to do. He's seen scenes like this in movies before, but watching fictional characters experience it and living through it himself are so hugely different...he's not even sure what's real anymore. Eventually, he settles back on his heels, scooting closer to lay Phantom's head in his lap. Surely, anything _ — _ even burnt, soot-caked jeans _ — _ makes a more comfortable pillow than the rubble of a high school.

A sort of strained smile appears on the ghost's face; he seems to be genuinely amused. "Weird..." But then his eyes, incredibly, seem to grow sharper as he stares up at Dash. The radioactive green (usually so bright, but dulled now, almost beyond recognition) regains a bit of its spark. Although it's a far cry from his usual piercing gaze, Dash can't help but feel a flash of hope. If he gets out of here fast enough,  _ Phantom will make it, _  he just has to _ — _

"Tell _ — _ Jazz _ — _ tell her not to...hate herself...over this, and she's...the best..." Phantom finally says, breaking the momentary silence. Dash nods immediately; the words are burned into his mind. It doesn't matter that he doesn't know exactly what the boy means by that; he has no  _ right _  to know; he only knows he will never forget his words.

"Jazz...Fenton?" he asks, just to be sure. It's not a common name, but this is  _ not _  something he's willing to mess up. He's still clinging to his desperate hope that the paramedics will be able to do something,  _ anything _ , for the ghost dying on the floor before him, but...

Phantom's still bleeding his life out from  _ too many _  wounds on the parts of him that Dash can see. He's been forcing himself to look away from the half of him crushed by the lockers, staying focused on the boy's pain-filled face instead. But something horribly wet seems to be soaking the knees of his pants, and he knows it's not just the blood that Phantom coughed up earlier.  _ He can't possibly...he's just...broken... _

"Oh...right..." Phantom almost seems to laugh, squinting up at Dash for a moment. "Keep this...secret...'specially...parents..."

_ He has parents? _  Dash doesn't have time to think on this, though, because there's suddenly a blinding flash emanating from in front of him. He shields his eyes, careful not to dislodge Phantom, and tries to blink away the stars once it dissipates. Something seems... _ different _ , but after being nearly blinded, it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust and find out why.

His whole world comes crashing down around him.

" _ Fenton? _ " His voice is a sick imitation of human speech; his mind is too far gone to form words properly. But Phantom _ — _ Fenton _ —Danny _  seems to understand, for he grins up at him despite the agony, his blue eyes shining in amusement. ( _ Nononono they should be green, this is some gross illusion, some disgusting trick, Fenton can't be Phantom, he  _ can't _  be—) _

"Yeah..." Danny gasps out, "lab...accident...last year..."

Dash's mind is spinning with new information, and he can't hope to keep up. He remembers that Danny was in some sort of accident in his parents' basement at the beginning of the school year. He had made fun of him for it, calling his parents freaks and nerds and useless scientists, and _  Danny had _ _ taken it _  with nothing more than a deep, angry glare. Even when he could have ( _ easily, so easily _ ) pounded Dash to a pulp, he didn't, and Dash has no idea why.

"Please...Jazz..."

"I'll tell her not to hate herself over this, and that she's the best...sister...?" Dash tries to finish what the boy had said earlier. He's trying to gain some semblance of control over his mind and body, if only for Danny's sake. He shifts his position slightly, laying the boy's head in a more comfortable position, and wonders at how  _ pale _  he is. He's not any darker than when he was a ghost; if anything, he's even  _ more _  white.  _ Oh God, the pain...why did he save me?  _ It should be Dash crushed under those lockers in unimaginable agony; it should be Dash choking on his own blood; it should be Dash taking the fatal blow for the town hero  _ (who was only ever a teenaged boy) _ , not the other way around...

Danny nods jerkily, pulling Dash back to reality. "The best...ever..." The weight of his head in Dash's lap becomes heavier, and he thinks for one horrifying moment that he might have passed out, but then he continues, "Tucker...don't let him...blame himself...best friend...I've ever had..."

Dash nods and makes a noise in the back of his throat to let him know that he heard. He's not sure he's able to form words at this point, because the suspiciously large lump in his throat feels like it will let loose the moment he opens his mouth. But he can't cry...can't let himself cry...Danny's the one who's staring death in the face...even as the school is crashing down around them, even as he's buried under a thousand pounds of white-hot metal, even as he's giving his last words to the boy who has never given him a chance...not a tear sweeps down his cheek. Dash is just a big baby, wanting to cry over something so small and insignificant ( _ or so he has to keep telling himself _ ) as guilt. He has to hold himself together for the dying boy in his lap who deserves so much more.

"Sam...I love her...more than... _ anything in the world _ ..." That brief spark Dash had seen earlier was back in his eyes, nearly covering up the torture saturating them. Dash doesn't have the heart to be happy or even  _ surprised _  by this revelation. Paulina had often told him how Fenton and Manson were "meant to be," but he had never paid any attention. But now, as Danny lies dying in his arms, he can see the burning passion that makes Danny  _ Phantom. _  Why has he never seen it before? The boy he's always bullied, the boy he's always written off as useless and weak, is the incredible hero he's always idolized. He cannot swallow his guilt as a few rebellious tears leak from his eyes, splashing onto Danny's face.  _ I should be the one who's dying. _  But Danny seems not to notice as he continues, a different kind of pain clouding his eyes.

"My parents...and the town...tell them... _ Phantom _  is sorry... _ so sorry _ ...please don't be mad..."

"You don't want them to know you're Phantom?" Dash blurts out, unable to help himself. He briefly wonders why his parents never knew...the idea of keeping such a huge secret from them seem _ s absurd _  to him...but with  _ ghost hunters _  as parents, he can't really blame him.  _ God, his life...and I only ever made it worse... _

Danny shakes his head minutely, wincing from the pain it causes. "Not now...Jazz...tell...later..." His body seizes again, and he curls up, lifting his head from Dash's lap as he tries to contain the agony. Eventually, he collapses backward, his head hitting Dash's knees with a slight  _ thump. _  He stares up at the ceiling with unfocused, dulling eyes, and his lips part silently for a moment before he barely whispers, "You'd...get out...collapse..."

For the first time, Dash forces himself to look toward the smoldering sky. Sure enough, several large, dangerous pieces of the building are hanging precariously, looking ready to drop at any moment. He is prepared to argue _ — _ he can't just leave Danny here to die  _ alone— _ but the boy nudges him weakly with his head, toward the hole leading to brilliant, sunlit safety.  _ Something he'll never see again. _  "Go..."

Dash hesitates before he catches sight of the fading blue of Danny's eyes.  _ His last request. That I get out of here alive _ . More tears slip down his cheeks as he realizes the cruelty of fate. "Thank...you..." Danny breathes, fighting to stay conscious as he smiles faintly. Dash forces himself to look him in the eye ( _ he deserves that much; look at what he's done for you)  _ as he slowly stands up, gently laying Danny's head on the smoking ground.

Danny's dulling blue eyes show no trace of hatred or remorse; there is only calm acceptance and relief. Dash must choke down another lump in his throat as he stares down at him, unwilling to leave him to die alone. Even if his friends, his sister, his parents can't be by his side, Dash can do him this small honor, paying tribute to the hero who sacrificed his life for a boy who never deserved it.

He swallows thickly again, suddenly feeling the heat of the fire. It's so close, yet so far away; he knows that he must leave soon, or else he'll perish along with his hero (which wouldn't be so bad _ , except that isn't what Danny wants) _ , but he  _ can't. _ He has to _ — _ Danny deserves so much more than this _ — _ he needs to apologize, to try and atone for everything he has done _ — _

He blinks rapidly as tears cascade shamelessly down his cheeks. It's ready to spill out of his mouth, everything he has never been able to say.  _ I'm sorry, thank you, I wish... _

But Danny's already gone.


	2. t h e f r i e n d

_He swore, long ago, that he would always stand by Danny's side._

* * *

Through the all-consuming haze of pain and terror, Tucker is sure he is going to die.

He doesn't have time to contemplate life after death (though he supposes he knows more than most); he doesn't have time to think of his family and friends; he doesn't even have time to be angry at Dash for getting him into this situation in the first place.

His whole body is screaming in pain. (He's probably screaming as well, but the roaring flames surely block the sound. Any rescuers stupid enough to come looking for him will never hear.) He realizes, distantly, that the burns are not as bad as they could be—he can still feel them... He doubts, though, that the cloth he is using as a desperate shield from the heat will last much longer. He is going to die, die this horrible death, stuck in a death trap with absolutely no hope of survival—

Suddenly, he feels a curious tingling sensation. It is almost... _cold._  This must be death, he realizes. It is an earlier release than he expected—early, but not unwelcome. Ghosts are cold, he remembers suddenly; Danny is cold; maybe this is what it is like to die—

But then he realizes that he is moving, passing clear through the locker door to stare around at the crumbling hallway of what once was Casper High. He's too delirious to process this, at first.  _This_  is what Heaven looks like? He was half-expecting seventy-two virgins, a choir of angels...or, at the least, the emptiness of the Ghost Zone...

The pain comes back full-force, though, and he is rudely informed that he is still alive. Before he can ponder this fact, a sharp slap across his cheek brings his world back into focus. "Tuck? Tucker! Dammit, don't you die on me—"

"D-Da—" He cannot properly form words by this point, but the ash-white, terrified face of his best friend is slowly swimming into view. What is Danny doing here? He's at home, too sick to even fight the Box Ghost... Either Tucker is delirious, or Danny has gone mad.

"I'm gonna get you out of here, there's an ambulance outside, don't worry," Danny says quickly, and though his voice is hoarse with illness and exhaustion, Tucker can hear the bravado, the optimism trying desperately to shine through. They are floating, now, toward an open section of what was once the roof...and though it is much slower than Danny normally flies, though Tucker can feel his friend's usually-herculean grip shaking from exertion, he feels  _safe._  Danny is here; Danny can save him; Danny will never fail.

(He's a superhero, and that's what superheroes do. They save people; they go out of their way to help. And even if Danny is only a fourteen-year-old-boy, he's  _special._ )

Tucker knows immediately when they break free of the smoke—the air is clear and beautiful, and he doesn't think he's ever tasted anything so wonderful in his life. But his entire world is still agony—agony and Danny—and he knows their problems aren't over yet.

( _Please let everyone else be okay..._  He doesn't think Danny can handle another trip into the burning wreckage, knows his friend is stretching his limits as it is. They tumble the last few feet to the ground.)

(But he also knows that if anyone else is trapped inside, if anyone else needs help, Danny won't hesitate to go back. That's the way he's always been.)

(Tucker knows it's part of his friend's personality, knows that Danny is heroic and kind and a better person than anyone else in town could ever be...but it's always terrified him.)

He's always worried that, one day, his friend's luck will run out, and then he and Sam will be left to pick up the pieces.

Paramedics are swarming all around them, and Tucker feels an oxygen mask being held to his face. He breathes in greedily—even if the outside air is cleaner than inside the school, it is still clogged with ash—as they lift him onto a gurney.

Sam is by his side within seconds, holding carefully to his scorched hand, doing her best to smile encouragingly down at him. He feels Danny at his other side, his cold, gloved hand resting reassuringly on Tucker's arm...

For a few precious seconds, he thinks everything is going to be all right.

But then Danny's hand is wrenched away, and a terrified, male voice shatters the illusion—"Phantom—please—Dash went back inside to get Tucker—he's still—"

Tucker tilts his head to look at Kwan and the crumbling school behind him. It's in much worse shape than he thought; the green flames—Aragon? Dora?—are reaching ever-higher; the walls are crumbling; heat waves roll through the air like water.

There is surely only a small chance that Dash is still alive.

But Tucker knows immediately what Danny will do. Even if Dash is a jerk, a bully, the one who can't  _stand_  Danny Fenton...he is still human. He's still a citizen of Amity Park,  _Danny's_  citizen, and Danny has sworn to protect everyone he possibly can.

"I'll be right back out, all right?" Danny says, turning back to Tucker and Sam with a bit of a grin. He looks exhausted, spent, but his eyes are shining with reassurance. "Wait for me."

He stands there for a moment longer, as if deciding whether to say anything else. But he only grins down at Tucker one last time and pats his arm gently, then pulls Sam into a one-armed hug before running toward Casper High again.

Tucker distantly hears Kwan wondering at this—he's  _running?_  Wouldn't it be faster to fly?—but his attention is diverted when the paramedics begin to wheel him away.

"W-wait!" he is able to rasp out, pushing the oxygen mask away. "I gotta—Danny said—"

"Kid, you're covered in at least second-degree burns. You need to be at the hospital," one of them says, looking down at him with worry in his eyes. "We'll let you know—"

"But—Danny!" Tucker turns his head toward the school, wondering if he can get another glimpse of his friend, but he has already disappeared into the building. "Please—he said—"

"Danny Phantom is our friend," Sam says forcefully, articulating what Tucker's tortured throat cannot. "We're not going anywhere until he comes back out."

As Tucker meets her eyes, he knows they are thinking the same thing— _we have to know he's okay._  Danny was sick that morning—horribly sick—Mrs. Fenton did not even allow them upstairs to see him. And if he is even too exhausted to fly...

The paramedics seem to hesitate for a moment before finally relenting, pushing the oxygen mask back in place and bustling around doing God-knows-what. Tucker only lies there in silence, grasping Sam's badly-shaking hand, and waits.

A hush, it seems, has fallen over the crowd. Many of them saw the shape Danny is in, how he ran rather than flew, how his exuberance and cockiness and everything that makes him  _Phantom_  were dimmed.

_But ghosts can't die. Ghosts can't get hurt. Even if something happens in there, something that would kill any of us, he'll be okay, right?_

They have such platitudes—false as they are—to offer them comfort. Tucker and Sam are not so blind.

Minutes pass in near-silence. Something is twisting in Tucker's gut, something large and insidious and  _lethal..._  He can barely feel the pain that once wracked his body; the terror thick in the air is so much worse.

The firefighters continue to douse the ghostly flames, to little effect; at the very least, the fire doesn't seem to be spreading. It is only a small blessing, but it is something Tucker clings to.  _He's all right. He's going to be fine and come out and hit us over the head for worrying so much..._

Even the Fentons have fallen silent, still, in anticipation of what is to come. Jazz stands close to her parents, her face a sickening shade of white, her eyes never leaving the small hole in the wall Danny disappeared through. They are all suspended timelessly, waiting, praying,  _begging_  that both boys will get out alive...

.

It seems an eternity before anything happens. There is movement within the school, just inside that small opening. Tucker strains to see without his shattered glasses, hopes and prays—

A figure comes stumbling out, and for a moment, Tucker wants to shout for joy.  _Danny is all right!_  Even if he passes out from exhaustion then and there, reveals himself to the town, it is surely better than—

But there is something wrong. As his eyes strain to see, to focus, to understand, he realizes that this figure cannot be Danny. It is too wide, too tall, too—

It's Dash stumbling toward them all, unbalanced and burned and horrified.

But if he's alive...surely Danny is as well?

Tucker directs his attention to the opening in the wall once again, heart swelling in anticipation. He doesn't notice as Kwan quickly leads his friend toward the ambulance, doesn't notice as Dash is loaded onto a stretcher mere feet from him...

Sam's grip has become painful, but he barely feels it as the seconds stretch ever longer.  _Where is Danny?_  Dash is alive, Dash is  _here_ —that is incredible in and of itself. Surely, that wouldn't be possible without Danny's help...?

"I'm...I'm..." A small, hoarse voice comes from next to him, and it takes several seconds for Tucker to realize that it is Dash. It sounds so meek, so  _terrified_ , that he doubts himself for a moment; after all, why would the great Dash Baxter show weakness before so many people?

He doesn't avert his gaze from the school, though, because whatever Dash has to say can wait until after Danny's safe arrival. Even if he wants to apologize, such words mean nothing right now; Tucker does not care; all he wants is for his best friend to come running back outside...

But as seconds turn into minutes, his anticipation slowly gives way to terror. Is there someone else trapped inside that Danny has gone to save? Why is he not reappearing, grinning around at them all, taking off for home so his parents don't realize he has left?

He distantly hears Dash talking again, but he does not turn,  _cannot_  turn. Maybe, if he stares long enough, he can  _will_  Danny to reappear...

"Tucker..."

He hears his own name, foreign on the boy's lips, and replies without turning, "Yeah?" He wants to ask Dash, to demand to know what is taking Danny so long. But his throat is burning; his mouth is dry; he's not so sure he'll be able to say anything else. He stays silent.

"Please...I'm sorry..."

There is something wrong with Dash's tone, he realizes suddenly. His voice catches; the pitch is too high; it sounds guilty and confused and scared. "Please...I never meant..."

Tucker's first thought is to blow him off, to tell him he doesn't care  _as long as Danny is safe._  But the boy's voice—usually so arrogant—has been reduced to a shell of its former self, and Tucker knows that something is terribly wrong. So he rips his gaze at last from the half-collapsed school to focus on Dash. It takes a moment for his muddled mind to realize, but...

Dash is crying.

Something churns in his gut, stabs in his chest, and he knows that  _Danny is not all right._  Dash has barely said anything, has scarcely hinted at what he means by that pain-stricken gaze, but somehow, Tucker  _knows._

Danny is never coming out of Casper High...and it's Tucker's fault.

He knows it, knows everything, even before Dash takes a shaky breath and summons the will to continue—"He—he pushed me out of the way—the ceiling gave out—I couldn't—"

Tucker feels Sam's grip tighten, feels his throat clench dangerously. They both know what Dash is trying to say...but it doesn't make it any easier to realize the true impact of these words.

Danny.

Dead.

Crushed to death...

Tucker begs whatever deities exist that he is jumping to the wrong conclusion. Maybe he sprained an ankle, broke a leg, but he has to be  _alive..._

But it's been nearly five minutes since Dash broke free of the building, nearly twenty since Danny went in to save him... There is just no way...

"What are you saying?" Kwan cuts in, his voice anxious and hurried. "He's a ghost—couldn't he just phase you both through...?"

Most of the crowd has congregated around them, now; the three Fentons  _(there should be four)_ push their way to the front. Jazz looks on the verge of hyperventilation, stumbling to Tucker's side and gripping the gurney with white knuckles.

Mrs. Fenton, distantly, is addressing Dash—"Where's Phantom? Why hasn't he come out yet?"

The pain and terror on Dash's face as he struggles to look her in the eye—Tucker realizes— _he knows._  Danny must have transformed back when he...he...

"He—he's gone. For good..." Dash barely whispers, apparently giving up on meeting her gaze. "He—you—he said to tell you that he's so sorry...asked that you don't be mad..."

Mrs. Fenton gives a sort of disbelieving snort, but Tucker is too busy realizing the implications of what Dash has just said. Danny lived long enough to give Dash his last words—lived long enough, buried under so much rubble, in horrible pain... If neither he nor Dash had been able to free him...

Suddenly, the nausea catches up with him. He barely has enough time to lean over as he is sick all over the grass.

Dash is talking, but Tucker cannot hear. The world is spinning; his vision is tunneling to pinpricks...he cannot understand.

Danny is gone...

Forever.

The world will never be the same again.

.

.

The next place he knows is a sterile, white hospital room. He feels numb, physically and mentally; he realizes there are people around his bed, realizes that someone is calling his name, but it doesn't matter.

Nothing matters anymore.

He slowly slips back into blissful oblivion.

.

.

But even in dreams, his is not free from the pain. Danny is there,  _both_  Dannys, wearing identical, accusing looks.  _Why couldn't you save me? Why do_ you _deserve to live? I'm the superhero—you're just the techno-geek that nobody really likes..._

He knows, intellectually, that this isn't—can't be—real. Danny would never say things like that; the two of them are— _were_ —best friends.

(Right?)

But it's hell, locked in his own mind, accused and taunted and hated by the vision of his best friend—the boy he's always had in his life.

Life...without Danny...ever again...

Will it even be worth it?

.

.

It is almost a blessing when he wakes up slowly and painfully. There are people in the room, people talking and moving and living, but they do not matter.

If Danny can't live, why should they?

His mother is at his side, her eyes red and puffy, staring at all the machines he has been hooked up to. At any other time, in any other situation, Tucker might have wanted to take them apart, put them back together, learn everything about how they work...

(But Danny can't do anything he enjoys— _enjoyed—_ so why should  _he_ be allowed that privilege? It's  _his_  fault his best friend is dead...)

He makes an attempt at speaking, if only to get his mother's attention. He does not know how long he has been here, how much time has passed since... The least he can do is comfort his mother—the woman who has always been there for him, the one who gave him life...

(And look, now, how easy it is to take it all away.)

She looks down at the noise, and her eyes well up anew as she sees him awake. "Sweetie...thank God..." She embraces him in a gentle hug, her body shaking with suppressed sobs. Tucker returns the embrace, feeling  _empty_  despite his mother's warm arms. The doctors rush over, usher his mother away, ask him question after question. He barely has the will to answer them.

Eventually, they leave him alone with his mother, and she returns to his side, pulling him again into her arms. "It'll be all right, honey, you'll see...the doctors say you and Dash will both be okay...the danger is past..."

He does not reply,  _cannot_  reply, because she does not know. His best friend is  _dead;_  Danny is gone; it will  _not_  be all right.

Nothing will ever be all right again.

.

.

On the second day, Sam walks into the room, her eyes exhausted and lifeless. She sits next to him silently, takes his bandaged hand... For a moment, it almost feels normal.

But there should be three of them...Danny should be there as well, laughing and joking and doing his best to make Tucker feel better.

(He supposes, though, that if Danny were here...there would be no need to cheer each other up.)

"You don't think—he would..." Sam starts, her voice barely more than a whisper. She cannot continue; a few tears roll down her cheeks, and she is silent.

But Tucker knows what she means.  _Will he come back,_  she wants to know.  _Will we ever see him again?_  He shakes his head, though, because he knows their friend will never return. Danny saw what true ghosts are, what they are reduced to in death—and, even if it will never happen, that dark image of a Phantom with flaming blue hair...

He knows Danny would never take that chance.

So he can only hug Sam—strong, unbreakable Samantha Manson—as she dissolves, sobbing, screaming,  _breaking._  They have each other, and that is more than Danny has—wherever he is—but it isn't enough.

Tucker feels horribly empty, feels the gaping hole in his chest as if  _he_ was the one to be buried, impaled...

Nothing else will ever fill it...

.

.

On the third day, Vlad Masters walks into the ward. Dark circles are under his eyes, though, and his presence lacks the domineering, arrogant attitude that has long been his trademark.

Tucker cannot even bring himself to glare at the man.

His mind has spun with possibilities since he woke up in the hospital—mad visions and desperate guesses that have driven him to the brink of insanity. Why didn't Vlad—the immensely powerful half-ghost—rush into Casper High when it was clear Danny was too weak? Plasmius and Danny were rivals—enemies, even—but they always knew that Vlad viewed Danny as a sort of surrogate son.

Before, it was creepy. Now, Tucker would give anything to make Vlad go back and get Danny out of there alive.

But he heard the news days ago—the nurses had it on the television. Mayor Masters had arrived after the disaster, had arrived as Dash was leaving the wreckage... Even if he had transformed then and there, Tucker knows, it would have been too late.

(Dash had watched Danny die, after all. Watched him die, buried under the rubble of a burning building, facing down the finality of death with only Dash Baxter at his side.)

"I...I did some research in the Ghost Zone," Vlad says, breaking through the haze of Tucker's crumbling mind. "It wasn't Aragon or Dora...some new dragon...nobody had heard of it."

 _It._  It was just a monster, not even a rational, thinking being like Skulker or Technus. Danny was killed by an animal, something  _young_  and  _new_  and  _unexpected._

"They're all searching the Zone," Vlad continues, his voice catching momentarily before he rights himself. "I'll be keeping an eye over town...they've all agreed not to attack..."

 _Vlad is helping._  He is starting a massive search for the beast that took Danny's life, is taking over Danny's job of protecting the town...this tragedy, it seems, has changed everyone.

(Is it worth it? Of course not.)

"Tell me when you find it," he says suddenly. His voice is still hoarse, his throat is still scratchy, but the venom seeps through his words all the same. "Tell me where it is, and I'll  _kill_  it."

Vlad looks taken aback by this announcement, potent and dangerous, but eventually nods. His eyes flash, though, as he replies—"If you are not healed, however, I will not let you fight. I don't care what you think you'll be able to do—I will not have the deaths of  _two_  children on my hands."

The haunted look in his eyes as he takes his leave finally hits home for Tucker. Vlad knows he didn't get there fast enough, knows that if he had done something different, Danny would still be alive.

The guilt is weighing down on him just like everyone else. If only they had known...

.

.

On the fourth day, Dash is released from the hospital—his burns, evidently, are not as severe as Tucker's. Dash finds his way to his room that day, clutching the door frame as he looks anywhere but Tucker's eyes. "Danny...Danny wanted me to tell you something, if you'll listen to me..."

The shame is heavy in his voice, in the way his hands shake violently, but Tucker nods immediately. He is far past blaming Dash for this—if he, Tucker, had stood up to him, yelled for help in those precious minutes before all Hell broke loose, they wouldn't be in this situation at all.

(He can't be mad at Dash. Danny forgave him, trusted him enough with these final words. It feels only right that Tucker does the same.)

"He said—you're the best friend he's ever had," Dash's voice catches, and he must swallow thickly before he continues—"And he said not to blame yourself. If anything, this is my fault..."

"I don't blame you," Tucker says, quietly, turning away to hide the sudden moisture in his eyes. "It—it was an accident..."

Dash makes a noise, as if he wants to say something in reply...but he ultimately does not. He only whispers "I'm sorry" before leaving the room.

The silence is deafening.

.

.

That night, when Tucker is finally able to fall asleep, Danny appears in his dreams again. He says nothing; this time, he only stares at Tucker with hurt and anger in his eyes.

Somehow, it is worse than before.

.

.

On the fifth day, the Fentons visit.

(There are only three. Why isn't there a fourth?)

Jazz looks like she hasn't slept since the fire; her face is a sickly white, and dark bags hang under her red-ringed eyes. Tucker wonders whether the Fentons really are that oblivious, or if Jazz has been lying to them.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" Mrs. Fenton sounds worried as she sits in a chair next to his bed. "I'm sorry we weren't able to come earlier...we had a lot to figure out, trying to find that dragon before it does anything else..."

_ Before it kills someone, just like it killed your son. _

Tucker wants to rage at them, to scream the truth to the heavens, if only to get those all-too-cheerful expressions off their faces. Mr. Fenton is happily talking about their designs for a containment unit big enough to hold the dragon, while his wife smiles and nods along.

Tucker wonders how Jazz can stand it.

"This thing killed Danny," he grinds out when Mr. Fenton pauses for breath. "We should  _ kill _  it, not  _ study _  it."

Mrs. Fenton's mouth drops open slightly before a smile slowly replaces it.  _ (Stop it! Just stop it!) _  "Ghosts can't die—you know that. That poor boy—Dash—was hysterical. Phantom probably just went back to the Ghost Zone to rest up. He did look ill..."

Something like worry almost flashes across her features before Mr. Fenton says—"It's confusing, calling Phantom by the same name as our boy! For a minute, I thought you meant—"

_ That  _ is _  what I meant! It's so obvious—why can't you figure it out? _  But one look from Jazz silences him. They do not know; they should not know, not now...

"It's really good of Vladdie to take Danny in while we're dealing with this mess," Jack says, suddenly magnanimous. "His own private hospital and everything! Danny-boy'll be better in no time! No puny little flu virus will take down a Fenton..."

No, but a huge, fire-breathing dragon will.

Tucker assures Mrs. Fenton that he is fine for the third time, forcing a strained smile on his face as she pats his shoulder comfortingly. "Don't worry, this will all blow over in a few weeks. Everything will be fine."

"I know, Mrs. Fenton. Thank you."  _ Fake smile. She has no idea how wrong she is. _

He's spent twenty minutes with them and is ready to crack. For Jazz to survive for nearly a week... She is the last to hug him, and he feels a few tears stain his hospital gown before she pulls away, wiping at her eyes. "I'm sorry...I just can't..."

Tucker does his best to smile, does his best to alleviate some of her pain. Whatever he is feeling, it must be so much worse for Jazz. After all, Danny was her little brother, someone she promised to protect...

_ (We all promised to protect him. Look how that turned out...) _

"Jazz, honey, your appointment with the somnologist is in five minutes. We have go find his office..."

"Right..." Jazz stands up, wiping at her eyes one last time. "We'll see you later, all right, Tucker?"

_ So they did notice. _  He supposes they would have to be blind to miss the way their daughter had changed...

He nods his agreement, giving them all a small wave as they disappear through the door. But he drops the facade as soon as they are gone... How long will the five of them have to keep this secret? How long will Danny be unrecognized? How long will they have to lie about this to the people they love?

It's so much different than before. Keeping Phantom a secret—it had almost been a  _ game _  to them, dancing around the rest of the town, knowing they held information none of them ever would...

But now, this secret is a war—careful, calculating strategy. One wrong move will send them all tumbling down.

.

.

On the sixth day, Vlad Plasmius appears in his hospital room, a Fenton Thermos held securely in his hand. He is burned, injured, but  _ alive, _  looking down at Tucker grimly.

It takes him a moment to realize. "That's—the dragon? You got it?" He can barely believe it; he had expected an epic chase, several months' worth of searching, finally taking it down with guns blazing, using every resource they had...

(Or maybe that's just the kind of fight he thinks Danny deserves. If this thing is monstrous enough to...to...)

Vlad nods, his grip only tightening on the thermos. "Technus found him in some obscure corner of the Ghost Zone..."

"Did it say anything?" He hopes viciously that the dragon doesn't repent, that it feels no remorse. Tucker will not have a problem tearing it apart limb from limb.

But Vlad shakes his head. "It wasn't capable of speech. A lower-level ghost, but powerful...the fire..."

Tucker's gaze flickers to Vlad's frayed, burnt cape and his smoking hair. The bastard had put up a fight—a hell of a good fight—but Vlad had won in the end. But that didn't matter—"When I get out of here, I'll get Sam and Jazz, and we'll help you kill it."

There is finality in his tone, no room for questions, just as he wants it. But Vlad's grip only grows tighter, looking at Tucker levelly for a moment. "This ghost is too powerful for you and your friends to deal with. I am burying the thermos, and that will be the end of it."

_ "What?" _  What kind of retribution is that? It is timeless in the thermos, or so Danny says—the damn thing won't be suffering nearly enough for what it did—

"I told you—I will not have your blood on my hands." And with one last look, Vlad is gone.

.

.

On the seventh day, Tucker is released from the hospital.

His parents are smiling as he is wheeled to the car, telling him all that he has missed, how construction for a memorial has started in front of Casper High... But he barely hears them, looking around the street. Instinctively, he looks to the sky, searching for Danny. He should be patrolling his city, protecting its inhabitants...

(But that won't happen—not anymore.)

He spends the car ride home in silence, looking out the window, wishing and praying and hoping that this past week has been a horrible dream. But it is far too vivid, too painful; he knows there is no waking up from this.

His parents look worried, but they do not push him; apparently, someone told them that Phantom was his friend. They "understand he may need his space right now."

He knows it's supposed to get better with time, knows the pain is supposed to dull eventually, but he doubts it will happen. Danny was— _ is _ —his best friend...and now he is gone.

The seventh day is supposed to be a day of rest, of rejuvenation, of living life how you want it. But Tucker cannot rest, cannot live, because part of his life has been torn from him forever.

.

.

That night, he dreams only of glowing, green eyes.


	3. t h e s i s t e r

_ Danny swore to her that he'd always come home...no matter what. _

* * *

She wishes she could feel something,  _ anything, _  besides the all-consuming guilt and anger in her heart.

Her little brother is gone.  _ Dead. _  Forever. She has forced herself to admit this; she knows denying it will only make it worse later on. But she's not sure how much longer she can keep pretending like this…

Her parents, living in blissful ignorance, are still hunting the dragon before it "endangers any lives."  _ Well, too late,  _ she wants to say. She wants to yell at them,  _ scream _ , but she knows she can't.

They all worked so hard to keep Phantom a secret, after all. She and Tucker and Sam and…and Danny…

She stifles a sob, hiding her face behind a psychology book she isn't really reading. Her parents are trying—she knows they are. They've noticed her change in attitude since the fire, have seen the constant red rings around her eyes and the exhaustion and the way she's acting like her life has ground to a halt.

(It has, of course. But they can't know that…not now…not when they are still actively searching for Danny Phantom and that dragon and—)

She knows they're trying. Even her father—oblivious, fun-loving Jack Fenton—has noticed. He's asked her several times, an uncharacteristic crease to his brow, if she's okay, if she's worried about Danny, if she's upset about the fire, if she's worried about Tucker and Phantom and whether the dragon will come back…

But she's not  _ worried _  about any of those things. Vlad—bastardly, manipulative Vlad Masters—is keeping an eye out for the dragon, has half the Ghost Zone searching for it…and will throw himself into the line of fire if need be. He's nearly as shaken up about Danny as she is…yet he needs to hold a whole town together in its darkest hour.

Her parents may not believe that Danny— _ Phantom _ —is dead, but most of the city is taking Dash's word for it. Jazz knows the boy is a terrible actor, and the pain and terror on his face when he was talking to them all, giving them Danny's last words…

_ "He said you're the best si—best—ever. And not to hate yourself over this…" _  Dash had searched her gaze, hoping she understood. He couldn't say  _ sister _ —her parents were there—and Danny didn't want them to find out this way…not now…

Danny's last words to the town— _ "I'm so sorry…" _ —have put the media into an uproar. They show the clean-up effort daily on the news, pondering whether their savior really is gone for good...

(She can't ever watch the broadcast, even though her parents do so religiously. Danny's body is still in there…somewhere…)

And it's her fault, no matter what anyone says.

She had been sick before Danny, had caught that strain of flu and passed it to her little brother.  _ "Don't worry, Jazz, my immune system's awesome! You can give me a hug, I won't catch anything…" _  And she had been so upset, so miserable with the illness that she had agreed without much prompting.

Two days later, Danny was running a three-degree fever and could barely get out of bed without falling over. And even though Jazz was still recovering, still had bouts of dizziness and chills,  _ she had gone to school. _  She had a calculus test that day, and she couldn't miss it; she had driven herself to school, promising to call if she started feeling worse…

(Of course, school hadn't even been in session for five minutes before the building was ablaze.)

The aftermath is a blur to her, now. She remembers Danny pulling Tucker to safety, remembers him going back in to get Dash…remembers him never coming out…

She wants to be angry at Tucker and Sam, the paramedics, those standing closer—they didn't stop him when it was clear he wasn't well. But they didn't know, not really; even Tucker and Sam had not known exactly how sick their friend was. Jazz has only herself to blame…because if she had stayed home that day, stayed home when she was still far too sick to be in school,  _ Danny would still be alive. _

(She knows, in some distant corner of her mind, that Danny would have gone anyway. He would have phased out of her grasp, given her a cocky smile in response to her terrified pleas, and taken off through the window.)

She knows this, knows there was nothing she could have done…but the possibility still haunts her.

.

.

Lately, she has taken to locking herself in her bedroom for long periods, hugging Bearbert tight and sobbing into her pillow. School will not be held until the debris is cleared, trailers are hired, a temporary system is set up...

She has maybe another week before she has to go back...and she can't decide which alternative is worse. Staying at home with parents who don't care that Danny Phantom is gone...or returning to the place it all happened, surrounded by people who don't really know anything.

(The truth will have to come out eventually, she knows. Danny won't be going to school, serving detention, nearly flying into class, late, again...)

But she doesn't think she can handle that revelation right now. People will start to wonder, will start to realize, once he has been absent for too long...but not now.

Please, God, not now.

.

.

Her head is filled with Danny's eyes and Danny's smile and the way Danny rubs his neck when he's nervous and the way Danny comes up with ridiculous excuses that their parents never really believe...

She feels lifeless—lifeless just like Danny—as she moves through the house in a constant trance. Her parents spend as much time with her as they can—they can't understand but they're  _ trying _ —but they have to work in the lab, have to make a containment unit for that Goddamned dragon before it hurts—kills, kills,  _ kills _ —anyone else.

(They've asked if she wants to sit down there with them, just for company, but she can't. That's where this started, where _ everything _  started. If they had never built the Ghost Portal, Danny never would have gone in and  _ Danny would still be alive.) _

She can't even look at the door to the lab whenever she ventures into the kitchen for a bite to eat. Toast—Danny hates toast—leftover Nasty Burger—Danny loves that place. Everything she does, everything she sees and hears and touches and  _ lives _ , reminds her of her precious little brother.

It's off-putting; it's terrifying; and in the dark recesses of her mind, she wonders if this is what it's like to go insane.

.

.

Two days after they visit Tucker in the hospital, there's a call from the city. Her parents are busy downstairs, so she picks up the phone with trembling fingers, swallows thickly, and manages a "hello?"

"Maddie Fenton?" The man sounds rushed, and before she can correct him, he continues—"I'm Jason Line, head of the cleanup effort down at the school—you need to get down here— _ I think we've found Phantom. _ "

It takes a moment for these words to sink in, but when they do, Jazz is violently sick all over the kitchen floor. "Mrs. Fenton?  _ Mrs. Fenton!  _ Are you all right?" The man on the other end sounds worried, his voice rising in volume as she collapses to the ground.

Almost instantly, she hears two pairs of foosteps rush into the kitchen. Her mother goes immediately for her, ignoring the pool of vomit as she kneels down to hold Jazz steady, her wide, terrified eyes begging to know what is wrong.

She doesn't think she can say anything without being sick again, so she simply holds the phone out, straining the cord even more. Her mother takes it with one hand, still clutching Jazz with the other, and holds a conversation with Jason Line that Jazz's addled brain can't understand.

She vaguely realizes that her father is on one side, his large, strong hands holding her by the shoulder and rubbing her back, but nothing makes sense right now.  _ They've found Danny. They've found Danny. They've found Danny. _

_ Danny's dead. _

One small part of her had begged and hoped and prayed—however irrationally—that Dash was wrong. Danny was able to phase out at the last moment; he was—somewhere—healing—safe—

But that is shattered now, spread out on the floor of her mind like so many shards of glass.

Her mother hangs up the phone; her mouth is set in a thin, worried line. "Jack, they think they've found Phantom, down at the school. Will you stay home with Jazz while I go pick him up?"

He nods immediately, pulling Jazz into a hug. "We can have some fudge after we get you cleaned up! That'll make you feel better..."

She does her best to smile, because it's clear he's trying to cheer her up. But then her mother begins heading for the door... "Wait, Mom, where're you going?" She realizes she should know this, heard her say it not thirty seconds ago...but she's not the brilliant girl she once was.

(Danny always called her too smart for her own good.)

She turns, smiling gently down at Jazz. "I have to go over to the school, sweetie. If that's really Phantom, we'll want to bring him back here..."

"Bring him back to do  _ what?" _  She's pushing to her feet, staring in horror at her mother. The world is spinning, and her head is far too heavy for her body...but that doesn't matter right now.  _ They won't give him a break even when he's—he's— _ "He's _ dead! _  Just—just—let him rest...just...please..."

She would be on the floor again if it weren't for her father's strong hands. "He's—he's a ghost, Jazzerincess," he says, his voice worried and unsure. "He shouldn't be  _ able _  to die. This is a weird case—can you imagine what this could do to all our research?"

"He's—he's just a kid," she whispers, nearly begs, collapsing farther back into his arms. "Just... _ please _ ..."

She feels rather than sees her parents exchange a glance, full of worry and confusion and doubt. "We'll talk about it, okay? But Mister Line is expecting me, I should—"

"Then I'm going with you." This is the one thing she has been sure of in the past week. She's Danny's older sister; she's sworn to protect him; even if she couldn't when—when it really mattered—she knows she has to do this much for him now.

Her moods have been erratic since the fire, and her parents know it; they share a wary glance before her father eventually nods. But as they make their way slowly to the RV, she hears her parents murmuring worriedly ahead of her.

_ God, if they figure it out now... _  She is still reeling with grief, still barely able to hold herself together for them. She can't even imagine the consequences if they found out like this.

.

.

Her mother drives to Casper High, taking a slow, steady pace that does nothing to help Jazz's roiling insides. She knows that she won't be able to handle the sight of Danny's broken, charred corpse...but she also knows this is the only way to keep him safe.

She wonders how much food is left in her stomach, and then wonders if the workers will mind her being sick all over their construction site.

(She finds that she doesn't really care.)

"Jazz, sweetie?" Her mother's voice is cautious as she glances at her in the rear-view mirror. Jazz does her best to focus on the reflection of her mother's worried eyes as she continues—"Was—were you and Phantom friends? Is that why you're so upset about all this?"

The desperate desire to understand, to make it better, shines clearly in her eyes, but Jazz cannot answer. She turns her head to look out at the scenery as they pass the park.

It begins to rain.

.

(Danny never liked the rain.)

.

.

It isn't hard to find Danny once they arrive. All of the workers have stopped to congregate around one of the tents, milling about in confusion and apprehension as they're soaked through. They part like the Red Sea when the three of them approach; soon, Jazz and her parents are standing inside, facing a man who must be Jason Line.

"It's...it's kind of hard to tell," he says, and yes, that's the same voice she spoke briefly with over the phone. She looks him up and down—matching him to the mental image of the man that she's already formed— _ anything _  to keep her mind off the boy surely lying just behind him. "But—Principal Ishiyama said all the students and faculty are okay—he'd be the only one in the building—"

Early twenties. Short, dark hair, bright green eyes. _  (Fenton and Phantom, like they've morphed together into this one man. _ Someone, somewhere, is mocking her.)

"He's the one causing the smell?" Her mother sounds vaguely surprised, and Jazz curses her, curses her for saying that, because she's been doing her best to pretend she can't smell what can only be burnt flesh...

(Danny's burning burning burning, crushed and burning to death in the school he's always hated, saving the boy he's never liked,  _ all because Jazz couldn't stop him.) _

Jason Line nods, and then his eyebrows crease together momentarily.  _ (Left is slightly thicker than the right, did it get burnt off somehow or did it just grow in that way?) _  "I'm no expert on ghosts, Mrs. Fenton, but I thought I've heard you guys say they're just blobs of ectoplasm. But Phantom—well—he's got  _ bones. _ "

She sees both of her parents jerk in surprise, feels any semblance of a mental block shatter. Of  _ course _  Danny has bones—even in ghost form, nearly everything about him is startlingly human—but how would this man know that?

She's moving before she even realizes what she's doing, pushing Jason Line aside to see what has become of her brother. For a moment, she can only stare; her mind refuses to accept what she is seeing. But then she is sick all over again, turning to the side to avoid hurting Danny (dead dead dead, already gone, he can't hurt anymore but  _ God _  how she does), and if her father hadn't moved as fast as he did then she'd be on the sodden ground.

But the image is burned into her mind—it's Danny, she knows it because it  _ has _  to be him, but there's no recognizing him. His beautiful hair, his trademark outfit, his cocky grin, they're all gone. Charred flesh— _ Danny Danny Danny _ —is all that remains, bits of bone sticking out of his lower half where he was crushed, his feet flattened and his pelvis shattered and one hand ruined beyond recognition—

She's sick again, emptying the last of her lunch onto her father's jumpsuit.

"Jack, take her outside," she hears her mother say, and though her voice is laced with worry Jazz will have none of it. She struggles to stand on her own, walk to her mother, desperately avoid looking at what is left of her brother.

_ (Burned crushed  _ **_dead_ ** _  could have saved him  _ **_dead_ ** _  got him sick  _ **_dead_ ** _  what kind of sister are you  _ **_dead_ ** _  it's your fault your baby brother is dead  _ **_dead DEAD_ ** _ ) _

"Jazz, honey, I promise I won't do anything with him," her mother says, and her voice is infuriatingly calm as she continues, "You shouldn't be here, if Phantom was your friend, this must be—"

She's ready to crack then and there. The way her mother is looking at Danny—her  _ son _ —is not sympathetic; it's not mournful; it's as if she's been given a particularly difficult puzzle to figure out. Why is it not obvious, that this is Danny _ Fenton _  lying before them? There is not one scrap of material remaining to suggest he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, but they've grown up with Danny—they've known him for  _ almost fifteen years— _ shouldn't—?

"It—it does look like he's got Phantom's build, at least," her father says, for he followed her closer but stayed silent until now. "Same height, too..."

_ They're treating him like a science experiment. Like some Goddamn specimen down in the lab.  _ She storms away, her vision suddenly clear, her equilibrium reestablished. And despite her still-tumultuous stomach, she pulls out her phone and dials the number she thought she'd never need again.

_ Ring. _

_ Ring. _

_... _

"Vlad Masters speaking."

.

.

He makes it there in less than two minutes—later, Jazz realizes he must have flown to get across town so quickly. He looks as dignified as always, though his eyes flash in pain as he walks forward, toward her mother and father and Jason Line and _ Danny. _

The first glimpse he catches of her brother—Jazz thinks he might be sick as well, the way his face drains of color so quickly. But evidently he rights himself, for he catches the adults' attention. "Maddie...Jack."

"Vladdie!" Her father turns immediately, a smile growing on his face. "What're you doing here? How's Danny?"

Jazz, standing behind Vlad, cannot hide her flinch, but he is a bit more successful. "He's—he's doing well. His fever was nearly breaking as I left, so hopefully, if nothing else comes up..."

It's a very good lie; Jazz would have fallen for it had she not known, had she not seen his fists clenched tightly behind his back. "I understand you found Phantom, Mister Line?" he addresses the younger man, who nods, looking a bit apprehensive.

"I called the Fentons, figured they'd know best what to do..."

It almost comes out as a question, as if he's seeking Vlad's approval for doing so. And even though she's hated the man since Danny told her who he was, even though he's manipulative and sly and only out for his own gain...she's immensely grateful that Vlad dropped everything to come here. He holds such sway over the town, over her parents...he'll get this sorted out.

(He has to, because she doesn't think she can handle bringing Danny home.)

"No, Jasmine only called for a second opinion. Unfortunately, I cannot allow you to take Daniel—Phantom home with you. Plans for a memorial have already begun, and I plan to have him interred beneath it."

"But Vlad! The fact that there's a body to bury at all—" Jazz watches the incredulity grow across her mother's face; she can't believe he would deny her such a precious test subject. ( _ Danny Danny Danny he's your son just let him rest now when he couldn't in life—) _

"I know of another ghost with the same properties as Phantom. I can retrieve a sample of his ectoplasm for you...but I'm afraid I must insist you do not perform any tests on Phantom."

Jazz jerks in surprise, unable to stop herself. Surely, Vlad doesn't mean—the girl, Danielle, is long gone, holed up in the Ghost Zone— _ he really means his own _ —

"Well, if you insist...I guess there's nothing we can do about it, huh?" Her mother looks vaguely disappointed as she turns from Danny with one last longing look.  _ (She should be grieving she should know it's her baby boy but of course she doesn't— _ )

Vlad smiles at her, though it's devoid of its usual flirtatious nature, and Jazz can see the tightness around his eyes. "I will see you all at the memorial, then." He nods to her parents and Jason Line and sends one last pain-filled look at Danny. As he turns to go, passes by Jazz, he puts a hand on her shoulder. She looks up to meet his eyes, and he whispers, "I am so sorry," before he steps out into the pouring rain.

.

(Jazz hates the rain too, now.)

.

.

_ You must tell them. Soon. _

A text message from Vlad, short but powerful. He's right—of course he's right—it's been a whole week. The longer she takes to tell them...

(Danny would have by now, if he were in her position. He's always been better, stronger.)

She'll never be half as good as her brother, and she knows it.

.

.

The next evening, she realizes she doesn't have any pictures of Danny in her room.

She has her scrapbook, the pages she spent hours putting together, cataloging the hero her brother truly was...but she doesn't have a picture on her wall or desk or  _ anywhere _  of Danny just being  _ Danny. _  And that, she is sure, is the Danny she misses most.

So she ventures downstairs, hoping that at least one of her parents is taking a break from work so they can help her look. They will think it is an odd request, but with the way she's been acting lately...hopefully they won't question it.

(Later, she always says. She'll tell them later, not now, because she won't be able to handle it while her mind is still filled with Danny and the image of what happened to him in the fire.)

Luckily, they are in the kitchen, eating some faintly glowing hot dogs. (Is it dinnertime already? She hasn't noticed.) "Jasmine!" Her mother sounds both surprised and pleased to see her, and Jazz feels a sudden, swift stab of guilt. She's been ignoring her parents' feelings, wallowing in her own grief...not paying any mind to what her change in attitude or Danny's "illness" or the dragon have done to them in the meantime.

"I was wondering...do we have any family photos I could have? Of all four of us?" Her voice is relatively steady, though her vision swims as tears fill her eyes. "Just...realized I don't have one..."

"Well, sure!" Her father—her ever-magnanimous, ever-cheerful father—sounds so happy that he can fulfill her request. "We've got all those in the book on the coffee table, right, Mads?"

She nods, smiling, though her eyes are worried as she searches Jazz's face. "I can find you a frame after dinner—I'm sure we've got one lying around. But what's brought this on, sweetie?"

"Just realized I don't have one," she repeats, forcing a small smile on her face. "And everything that's been going on...just makes you realize how important family is."

They both stare at her for a moment, as if unsure of what to make of this. She only offers another smile, turning quickly into the living room as tears finally fall down her cheeks.

_ (Weak. _  How is she supposed to tell them the truth when she's reduced to tears by such small things?)

She pulls out the album gingerly as she sits down, knowing this is going to do nothing good for her psyche...but finding that she doesn't really care. Skipping the first half of the book—baby pictures, pictures of carefree times that will surely reduce her to hysterics—she quickly finds the more recent photos.

Many are of only her and Danny, or only her parents, or some other incomplete pairing. But she wants all four of them, together and happy and  _ alive... _ there has to be one...

_ Finally. _  And it isn't even one of the stilted poses that photographers seem to love; it looks like a spur-of-the-moment picture—likely taken by Sam or Tucker. They're setting up for a game night, a rare evening without inventions or attacks or worries. Jazz remembers it clearly—it had been shortly after Danny got his powers, before he started actively fighting ghosts... He had suggested the evening off to celebrate the opening of the Portal, and their parents had agreed whole-heartedly.

She slides the picture out of its plastic sleeve slowly, reverently, as if it may crumble to ashes in her hands. She doesn't realize that she's crying until teardrops start appearing on her hand, and she swipes at them furiously, putting the photo on the table. She can't ruin it, not when it's so beautiful and perfect and  _ Danny... _

"That's one of my favorites as well," her mother says softly from next to her, sitting down and picking up the photo. A small, sad smile is forming on her face, and Jazz wonders for one horrible second if she's figured it out, if she's failed her brother's last wishes even in this—

But her mother only pulls Jazz into a comforting hug as she cries. "It'll be all right, you know...I called Vlad again today, and he says Danny should be able to leave the hospital in a couple of days. And...Phantom, well, wherever he is...he's not hurting anymore."

.

.

As it turns out, the ceremony at Casper High is held the next day. She digs through her closet for dress clothes, fixes her hair for the first time in days, and heads downstairs, ready to drag her parents across town  _ no matter what. _

(After all, the least they can do is pay their respects. There's no denying the fact that Danny saved two lives that day, saved two lives by sacrificing his own.)

(Her eyes are already tearing up; her vision is clouding; she'll be surprised if this secret lasts through the day. But it's  _ Danny _ —she knows she must go—she  _ wants _  to go—even though she knows it will be unbearable.)

As she reaches the kitchen, though, she is greeted with the one sight she isn't prepared for. Her parents are seated at the table, solemn and silent. And while this isn't especially strange in and of itself,  _ they're not wearing their jumpsuits, _  and that throws everything off.

Her father is wearing slacks and a dark orange dress shirt—habit, she supposes, but the shirt is not nearly as bright as his usual attire. Sitting next to him and glancing over a newspaper is her mother, wearing a conservative black dress Jazz didn't know she owned.

They're clearly uncomfortable in the outfits—her father constantly picks at the collar and cuffs of his shirt, and her mother keeps pulling at the neckline of her dress—but the fact that they're dressed up at all...

They look up as she enters the kitchen, and her mother's face breaks into a gentle smile. "The memorial starts at eleven, so we should probably leave around ten-thirty, if you still need to wash up..."

Jazz can only stare for a moment, her eyes going wide as she takes in the implications of that statement. They're going of their own volition. They've...put aside their hatred of Danny Phantom, at least long enough to see him put to rest.

This is world-changing; this is heart-stopping; she bursts into tears and runs to embrace them both. It doesn't make everything better—it will  _ never _  be all better...but it's a start.

.

.

Later, she will say that she doesn't remember much of the ceremony itself. Vlad spoke, along with a few school officials...even a few students... But the statue is what captures Jazz's attention so completely. She wonders briefly what master sculptor Vlad commissioned to create such a thing in a week's time, but she knows that if anything is able to capture the heroic nature of her brother...this is it.

It's larger than life; Danny is flying, smiling...somehow looking both the mature, bold guardian he pretended to be and the young, carefree teenager he truly was. It's beautiful; it's perfect; and it's all she can do not to burst into tears when she sees it.

Eventually, she tears her gaze from the memorial to look around at the crowd. It seems like everyone in town is there, all in various stages of shock—perhaps grief as well, especially those who had been saved by Danny.

(She wonders just how many lives her little brother has touched in his fourteen years... More than many people do in decades, surely.)

She sees Sam and Tucker standing a ways away, separate from their parents. Tucker's arm is around Sam's shoulders as she sobs; whatever apathy she had claimed as a goth is long gone. Jazz doesn't think she can blame her.

The girl Danny had dated briefly—Valerie Gray—is also nearby, looking rather lost as she stares up at the statue like she's trying to recall some long-forgotten memory. Her wild hair is barely tamed, and she looks like she hasn't slept much more than Jazz these past two weeks. Jazz knows she hated Danny Phantom—she wasn't exactly quiet about her opinions whenever a ghost attacked—but something seems to have shifted in her stance, in her psyche... Instead of the hatred and contempt she's always maintained for Danny's ghost form, confusion and something like alarm are quickly spreading across her face.

(As Jazz turns away from Valerie, too lost in her own shattered mind to try and analyze the other girl's, she misses the way she turns at last from the statue. Valerie's terrified eyes seek out Sam and Tucker; they look lost and lonely without their third friend. And then they find Jazz and her parents. Sickening comprehension forms on her face; she stifles a sob; she flees the ceremony, running running running because she knows the truth but it's too late to apologize, too late for anything now.)

(Even if Jazz  _ had _  seen this happen, she likely wouldn't care. She knows Valerie is smart, knows she's spent enough time with both Dannys that only her hatred and prejudice blind her to the truth.)

It's not like it matters who knows now, anyway...because after this, she's certain she will lose what sanity she has left if she doesn't tell her parents  _ soon. _

The memorial is over, now; she doesn't know how long they've all been standing on the muddy grass, but it doesn't really matter. She steps closer to the statue, trying to burn the image of it into her mind, because, truly, this is Danny...

His eyes capture her attention (they're not Danny's—not really—it's just stone but  _ God _  it feels like he's looking right into her soul) and as she makes her way even closer, she realizes that this isn't just plain stone. It has a faint green shade to it, making Danny look almost ethereal as he watches over them all.

Is it some sort of ghostly rock, or is it just some rare stone found on Earth? Was the sculptor human or ghost? She finds that she doesn't care either way; she's captivated by the memorial's beauty,  _ haunted _  by it... She is sure that, even after she leaves, she will feel Danny's eyes on her.

(That's what he promised to do, after all. Protect the town, watch over his citizens, keep them safe. He was dedicated to them—dedicated enough to  _ die  _ for them—and Jazz suddenly realizes just how proud of her brother she is.)

(She'd give anything to take away some of that courage and chivalry and kindness, though, because  _ nothing _  is worth losing her baby brother like this.)

Eventually her parents pull her away, gentle and kind. Her mother is saying something about finding a frame for her photo, and that is surely important, but Jazz cannot focus on her distant words.

She knows it's impossible, knows it's another sign of her failing mind, but she feels Danny watching her all the way home.

.

.

She's desperate for company now, the moment her parents have left. Vlad called not long after the memorial was over—apparently he needs to speak with them and Valerie, because they need to discuss town security now that...Danny...

She lets out another sob, gripping Bearbert and the photo tight. Her mother had come in earlier, framed picture in hand, and asked gently if she would be all right on her own for a couple of hours. And Jazz wasn't sure she would be— _ still _  isn't sure—but it's an important meeting so she told her mother to go.

Now, though, she's drowning in the silence, and there's no telling how far she's already fallen.

She looks at the photograph one more time before setting it on her bedside table, on top of the psychology books she hasn't touched. It's truly beautiful; the smiles on their faces are genuine; their lives are simple and peaceful and  _ happy. _

She's ready to grab lunch—call Tucker and Sam to see if they're all right—do  _ something _  just to give her body something to do. But then she hears it—a distinct  _ thump _  coming from the room next to hers.

She knows she's the only person in the house; she's ready to write it off as the house settling, something falling outside...but then she hears it again.

And again.

Like someone is walking heavily through the room, like he's badly injured...

And then she remembers that her room is adjacent to Danny's.

She's in the hallway before she's even realized she's moved, scrambling to get to her brother's bedroom  _ just a little faster. _ It's Danny, it  _ has _  to be—injured and weakened but  _ alive— _

Her sweat-soaked hands grasp for purchase on the doorknob, take impossibly long to maintain a grip. But finally,  _ finally, _  she flings the door open, ready to scream at Danny, angry that he made them worry and joyful that he's alive all at the same—

But the room is empty.

The words die in her throat; her mouth feels like sandpaper.

He's...not here?

"Danny?"

Her voice is hushed, desperate, because maybe he's just scared their parents will come and see him. It's just her...he doesn't need to worry...

"Danny, it's safe...we can get you fixed up, it'll be okay...Mom and Dad are out..."

Silence.

Not one thing moves, nothing except her heaving chest and darting eyes.

She searches desperately for some sign that he is there, invisible: an indentation in the bedsheets, the desk chair, the carpet...

Nothing.

The window is bolted shut, and the room looks like it hasn't been touched in weeks. She hasn't been in here since the fire... The sheets are thrown back haphazardly; a book is flung carelessly to the floor; the trash can is full to the brim with dirty tissues... It looks like he just left to save Casper High moments ago, as if she's somehow traveled two weeks into the past.

"Danny...please...you're here, right...?"

He  _ has _  to be here, because who else could it be? It's  _ Danny's _  bedroom;  _ Danny's _  the one who can turn invisible;  _ Danny _  can, surely, survive what no normal human can... It... _ has _  to be him...

But only the silence of her brother's abandoned bedroom answers her.

And suddenly, she realizes just what she's doing. She buried her little brother not two hours ago—buried him under that beautiful statue that will never replace the boy he truly was. Now she's—she's hallucinating—her mind is creating things that her heart so desperately needs...

(After all, Danny isn't— _ wasn't _ —a god. He was only ever a boy with too much on his shoulders, given too great a task for anyone to bear...and he had done the best with what he had. And, eventually, his luck had just run out.)

She collapses to the ground, tears streaming down her cheeks. She's found herself in this time capsule, full of agonizing thoughts and unbearable memories, but she won't—can't—leave. It's so completely Danny—the model rockets and the NASA posters and the dirty laundry—

(—and the first-aid kit shoved under the bed and the ectoplasm-soaked bandages at the bottom of the trash bin and the Fenton Thermos that should be there but  _ isn't—) _

that she can't bring herself to leave. She can't describe it, knows it doesn't make sense, but she feels close to him here. It looks like Danny; it smells like Danny; it feels like Danny; and even if his absence is tearing a gaping hole in her heart, she can't find it in her to leave. So she stays there on the floor, stays there and sobs over the things that would have, could have, _ should _  have been.

.

She does't know how long she is there, lost, sobbing in her misery, but her mother's alarmed voice pulls her out of the endless stupor. "Jasmine! Are you all right?"

It takes her a moment to leave the memories behind, but she eventually forces herself to turn. Her mother is standing a few feet away in the open doorway, eyes wide and arm outstretched as if to pull her to safety.

But Jazz can't say anything, can barely react to the world around her. She is silent. Her mother rushes into the room, glancing around at its state of disarray before focusing again on Jazz. "What's...what's wrong, sweetie?"

Her voice is unsure and anxious; it's such a departure from the capable mother Jazz knows that it barely registers in her mind. She can only shake her head slowly, hug her knees tighter to her chest, and stare blankly ahead.

(She can see the corner of an ectogun poking out from under Danny's bed. Her parents would wonder, would ask, if they still had a son to question.)

Another sob wracks her body; she just can't take it anymore. It would be spilling out of her mouth, all of it, if only she could find it in her to speak...

But she can't  _ (too weak) _  so she only continues to sob, leaning into her mother as she crouches down next to her.

"Please, Jazz, you haven't been yourself these past two weeks...your father and I just...we want to help...just tell us what's wrong..."

"You can't..." she is able to choke out, not daring to meet her mother's eyes. "You—you can't..."

"You don't know that..." Her voice is calm, soothing, but there is a worried edge to it as she continues to rock back and forth. "It'll be okay...Danny's coming home tomorrow! He's healed, the doctors just want to keep him overnight...we'll have to clean up this mess so he doesn't catch anything again, but—"

" _ No!" _  The word is out of her mouth before she can stop it. She doesn't know what she's protesting—the false belief (lies lies _ lies _ ) that her brother will return to her tomorrow, or that they should ruin this place, this timeless room that is one of the last remnants of her brother...

The lies are tearing her apart. No more. No more stories, no more excuses. It will be painful, she knows,  _ unbearable _ even...but she just can't do this anymore.

She thinks she hears heavy footsteps behind her— _ Dad.  _ She finally looks up to see her mother's eyes—worried, bordering on frightened. Her father is indeed there now, kneeling with an uncharacteristically anxious expression.

"No what? Please, Jazz, what's wrong? What are you not telling us?"

"Danny's—Danny's not—" The words catch in her throat, tear at her heart and lungs, but she knows she has to continue. _ They're our parents. They deserve...they deserve to know. They should have known a long time ago. _  "He's not coming home..."


	4. t h e m o t h e r

_She swore, years ago, that she would never let a ghost worm its way into her heart._

* * *

_"He said...he said to tell you that he's so sorry...asked that you don't be mad..."_

These words have echoed in her head for days, full of pain and sorrow and desperation. That poor boy—Dash Baxter, she later learns—had been a huge admirer of the ghost boy, and he had to watch him...

What?

Die?

Nothing has settled right in her gut since the fire six days ago; her insides have twisted and grappled with each other for hours at a time while her brain searches for answers. Everyone else in town seems to accept that Phantom is dead and gone...but decades of paranormal research prove otherwise. Ghosts aren't  _able_  to die; they're already dead; while there are theories that _something_ may be able to cancel out a ghost's imprint...

A fire—falling debris—shouldn't be able to destroy a ghost. It goes against everything she's ever learned...

(But then, so did Phantom's actions that day. She had been so sure he was just another mindless ghost, hell-bent on wreaking havoc...but he had run into that burning building without hesitation to save two people he barely knew.)

(She still can't get the image out of her head of his sickly pallor, his deadened eyes, his unsteady gait. He had looked so much like a sick child that she had wanted to pull him back, go in to save the boy herself...)

_But he's a ghost._

She keeps reminding herself of this, telling herself that he isn't—wasn't?—the child he seems to be.

So why is it suddenly so hard for her to believe what she's known all her life?

.

.

She's wondered, since the day it all started, why Phantom singled out her and Jack to receive his final words. Why not Vlad, with whom he seemed to have a sort of love-hate relationship; why not any of the students, the city officials, people who _admired_  him?

Her furious hatred of the ghost boy has dissipated in the wake of his disappearance (not death—not yet—there's no proof and it doesn't make sense), but it's not as if she's ever shown any kindness toward him...

 _("We'll dissect you and then rip apart the remains molecule by molecule!"_  Why does she suddenly feel so guilty?)

 _Why_ ? Why did he want  _them,_  in particular, to know that he's sorry? (For what? For dying? For all the evil he's done?) Why did he hope that  _they_ weren't angry with him?

(She isn't any more upset than she was before the fire...but somehow, she doesn't think that's what Phantom meant.)

.

.

Her children have suddenly become so distant...and it  _hurts._

Danny, whisked away by Vlad the day of the attack, has let his phone die. It goes straight to voicemail every time she calls it, his cheerful voice almost mocking her—

"Hey, this is Danny! Sorry I can't answer right now. Call Jazz or the house if it's an emergency, but otherwise, leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can!"

It's always confused her, the way he directs the caller to a different number as if he's  _expecting_  an emergency phone call. Whenever she asked him, though, he always shrugged it off with a laugh. "Just in case there's a ghost attack, you know? The Amity Park kind of emergency."

(She never knew how much truth was in those words.)

But still she calls his phone, hoping he will pick up just so she can hear her baby boy on the other end. She's started calling Vlad as well, demanding in an increasingly hysterical tone to speak with her son.

_"He's asleep right now..."_

_"The doctors are checking up on him..."_

_"He's lost his voice, he won't be able to speak to you..."_

On and on and on until she thinks she might go mad. Vlad says these things so calmly, as if it's not a big deal...but it  _is._  This is her  _son_  they're talking about—her son that's been ill for nearly a week, so ill that he's been transferred to a private hospital...

She has given up on Danny's phone, but she continues to call Vlad every day, begging and pleading to have just two minutes on the phone with Danny.

"I'm sorry, Maddie, not right now. I'll call you when you can speak with him, all right?"

It's  _not_  all right, but Vlad hangs up before she has the chance to say so.

.

.

(Why does she feel like something is horribly, horribly wrong?)

.

.

But Danny isn't the only one who worries her. Jasmine hasn't been herself since the fire; she's locked herself in her room for hours at a time, refusing to come out for anyone or anything. The walls are thin; Maddie can hear her sobbing far too often.

But  _why?_  What is wrong? What could possibly reduce her strong, capable daughter to this terrible state?

She thinks, at first, that she may be shaken up because of the fire. Jazz could have died that day, could have been horribly injured like Tucker or Dash—

_(or Phantom)_

—still barely recovering from the burns covering much of their bodies.

_(or dead.)_

But she  _isn't_  hurt; Tucker is healing; nothing else has happened. It just doesn't make sense...

_(Where is your son?)_

Surely, Jazz is worried about Danny—they all are, more than they let on—but something still seems utterly  _wrong_  about the situation. Danny has been sick before; he's been injured before; surely, the near-electrocution he received by the Ghost Portal left him much worse off than a strain of the flu. Whatever this is, Vlad will have it taken care of, and then Danny will come home, well and smiling and laughing at them for worrying so much.

(Right?)

_._

.

.

The sound of Danny's laughter haunts her dreams.

At first she welcomes it, loves it, embraces it with open arms, because it's her precious little boy. But after a few blissful moments of sitting and simply listening...it's not so carefree anymore, not so cheerful and loving and kind. It loses its joy, turning into a humorless laugh full of utter agony. She can barely stand to listen, but she can't—won't?—wake up. Danny is in pain, desperate and alone, and even if this isn't the real Danny  _(or is it?)_ , it still pulls at her heart in ways she's never imagined.

Maybe the dreams make her forget, or maybe her own mind shoves the truth away. But the dreams always end the same, and inevitably, she wakes up screaming into Jack's comforting arms.

Every time, Danny finally appears from the darkness...but it isn't Danny. It's Phantom laughing, laughing without even a hint of happiness in his eyes.

She looks at him.

He charges an ectoblast.

She demands to know what he's done with her son.

He fires.

.

.

.

Something shifts, she thinks, when they are called to retrieve Phantom's body from Casper High.

She realizes— _far too late_ —that Jazz is grieving for the ghost boy. Why has she not realized, not listened, while she  _(and Danny)_  defend his innocence? Even if  _she,_  Maddie, does not  _(did not)_  feel the same way...Jazz was friends with Phantom.

(Tucker and Sam were as well, it seems. And Danny...?)

And even though she has fought him tooth and nail, defended over and over her beliefs that he was never trying to help...Jazz believed in him. And now, as she watches her daughter in the rearview mirror, Maddie's starting to think the same way.

(She tells herself it's because he's gone, really and truly; she tells herself it's because he adopted a teenage form, so similar to her own children; she tells herself and tells herself...)

But she's not sure she has the heart to hate him anymore.

.

.

The scene at the construction site is painful. Jazz looks worse than she had been even the day of the fire; as she empties her stomach onto the muddy ground, Maddie finds that she's not so far behind.

Phantom was such an important figure in Amity Park, was always so boisterous and loud and  _there._  It didn't matter what he was doing, what ghost was chasing him around, whether you thought him good or evil...he was always  _Danny Phantom,_  the ghost boy with the monochrome jumpsuit and the eerie green eyes.

Whatever he was, he was never weak or insignificant...

So why, now, does he suddenly look so  _small?_

His body is there on a carefully-laid tarp, so silent, so unlike himself that it's hard to reconcile the two images. (The last time she had seen him, he had hugged Sam and Tucker good-bye, flashed a reassuring smile toward the horrified crowd, and sped back into the burning building as fast as his shaking legs could carry him.)

She can't; it's impossible; there is nearly nothing left of his body, just skin charred past recognition and bones shattered beyond repair, jutting out of him at odd angles as he lies there...

(Why is he so quiet, so motionless?)

It's surely because his form was so like a human's, so like a human teenager's (she— _everybody_ —never truly realized just how young he was), but something like anxiety is settling in. She reminds herself that he wasn't human; he couldn't feel pain; this didn't hurt him nearly as bad as they think...

Without realizing, without fully wanting to, she feels herself slipping from mother to scientist. It's a relief, at least from the terror clutching at her heart; it allows her to concentrate on cold, calculating facts. She's known them all her life, and they have never failed before.

(But she has to remind herself constantly that a ghost is a ghost. Phantom is no different from the other spirits wandering throughout the Ghost Zone and into their lives.)

(She just wishes she believes herself, because she still can't shake the feeling that something is so, so wrong.)

.

_He's so still._

.

When Vlad comes, she keeps her facade up, if only barely. She has to be strong; she has to be in charge; if she isn't, she's sure they'll all come tumbling down.

(She's never been able to read Vlad, and it's  _painful,_  trying to listen to the things he isn't saying.)

.

_He's so quiet._

.

She's ready to corner Vlad then and there, demand to be taken to Danny right this second. This has been going on long enough. Danny is her  _family,_  and they all deserve to see him.

(She ignores the nagging feeling in her mind that this has something to do with Phantom.)

But before she can, he is gone, stepping out into the rain and out of her last, desperate hope.

.

_He's so small._

_._

She takes one last look at Phantom before forcing herself to leave him behind. He's a ghost—he was her enemy—so why is she suddenly so overcome with this emptiness and guilt? Part of it is empathy for Jazz, surely, but that can't be everything. It feels like Phantom has suddenly become a part of her life, an irrevocable piece of her soul that can never be ripped away.

(She can't understand...and she's not sure she wants to.)

There is something insidious in her gut, in her mind, in her heart, something lurking just out of reach, twisting her very being until she wants to scream out in anguish.

(But she can't, because Jazz and Jack and Danny have always counted on her to stay strong.)

.

_He's so young._

.

He looked so much like a child, lying there on the blue of the tarp and the brown of the mud and the black of the ash that used to be a part of him. He looked so innocent and vulnerable, as if he were just like either of her children, in over his head and waiting desperately for someone to save him.

_He's just a boy..._

(But nobody saved him, because they didn't think he needed saving. What kind of hero needs someone else to rescue him, after all?)

Suddenly, she's not so disappointed that Vlad stopped them from taking him home.

.

.

.

She dreams again that night, but this time it is different.

(And worse.)

The laughter is the same, at the beginning. It lulls her into a false sense of security, allowing her to think for a few precious seconds that maybe,  _maybe,_  it's really Danny this time.

But then, of course, the laughter changes. This time, it's not just hopeless; it's the laugh of a madman, deep and full of violent insanity.

For the first time, Maddie is truly afraid.

And when the figure appears, it's not Phantom...or, at least, it's not the Phantom she knows. This ghost is tall and muscular, far more built than Phantom's thin— _teenage_ —frame could ever hope to be. But the insignia on his chest is clear as day...right under the head, sporting blue skin and flaming hair and a wide, cruel grin.

_"Hi, Mom."_

.

.

.

When she wakes up in a cold sweat, clutching Jack's arm like a lifeline, she doesn't know why she's screaming.

All she remembers are sharpened fangs and burning hair and glowing scarlet eyes.

.

.

She knows it's not a question of whether they're going to the memorial the next day. Even Jack dresses up without a word, awkwardly tucking in his shirt as Maddie zips her dress.

And when Jazz comes downstairs at a quarter past ten and bursts into tears, she knows they've made the right decision. They never knew Phantom, not really, and every instinct in her body is screaming to resist the lies...but this means the world to Jazz, and that's all that matters. Because no matter how cryptic, no matter how worrisome, her quiet sentence from the night before has truly hit home.

_"Everything that's been going on...just makes you realize how important family is."_

.

.

.

The memorial is breathtakingly beautiful.

.

.

.

She's carefully framing that family photo for Jazz when the phone rings. Jack is upstairs, so she lifts it from its cradle, managing a "hello?"

"Maddie?" It's Vlad. He waits for her to confirm herself before continuing—"If you and Jack wouldn't mind—"

 _"Is Danny all right?"_  Why else would Vlad be calling? He said he would call with any change in his condition—when Danny would be able to talk to them—had they finally...?

There's a pause, an eternity stretched into those few precious seconds. Finally—"Yes, he—the doctors say they'll be releasing him tomorrow. But that's not why I called...I was hoping—"

She's barely listening.  _Danny's coming home tomorrow!_  The doctors Vlad told them to put so much faith in—they hadn't let Danny down—they had  _healed_  him! And finally, after two weeks, she'll see her little boy again...

.

.

The meeting at City Hall is brief. There are only four of them there: her, Jack, Vlad, and Valerie Gray—Danny's former crush, and, apparently, a talented ghost hunter. She looks utterly miserable; her thick, curly hair is a mess, and it looks as though she's been crying. Maddie catches several glances sent her and Jack's way while they discuss a way to defend the town now that Phantom is...

"I know of a ghost who is willing to help," Vlad is saying. As Maddie takes a good look at her friend, she realizes that he doesn't look much better than Valerie. His usually immaculate ponytail is coming loose, and his suit is a bit wrinkled; however, the worst is his eyes.

Maddie suddenly feels like she's missing out on something. Something hugely important. Jazz and Tucker and Sam and Valerie and Vlad...

Valerie scoffs at Vlad's suggestion, though it lacks her usual venom when talking of the supernatural. "Sure, Danny—Phantom may be a good guy, but how can we...?"

Bringing up Phantom at all seems to chip away at her wavering composure; she sniffs loudly and falls silent. "This ghost is the same... _type_  as Phantom," Vlad says slowly, as if weighing each word carefully. "I can assure you, he is trustworthy, if you will give him a chance."

It's like she and Jack aren't there as they stare at each other for a long moment. Valerie seems to be seeking information; Vlad, to be begging for understanding...

(Maddie thinks she sees Vlad's eyes flash red for the tiniest of moments, but it must be a trick of the light.)

Something seems to have happened, for Valerie's eyes widen to impossible proportions. "Mister Masters,  _you...?"_

"As I was saying, I can give you my greatest assurances that he can be trusted. And as long as you all have ghost trackers, I doubt there will be too much of a problem..."

.

.

The meeting is over quickly after that. Valerie leaves almost immediately, wiping her eyes on her arm and sending a strange look toward Maddie and Jack. But before she can ask the girl about it, she has activated her jetsled, soaring off into the sky.

(Maddie's always wondered what it would be like to fly.)

"I will...drop Daniel off tomorrow, then?" Vlad says, and he smiles with a certain tightness around his eyes. "Perhaps three o'clock?"

"The earlier the better!" Jack says, smiling broadly and pulling Vlad into a hug. "I don't know how to repay you for this! Maybe some fudge—?"

But Vlad is shaking his head, that same horribly strained smile on his face. "Please, don't worry about it. Give my regards to Jasmine, yes?"

And before either of them can say another word, he has disappeared through the front door.

.

.

Maddie knows Jack is trying to get home to Jazz as soon as possible—his driving, more reckless than usual, betrays the worry behind his cheerful mask.

"How do you think she is?" he asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "Didn't want to leave her home, all alone..."

"I'm sure she's fine," Maddie says, patting his arm. (Who is she trying to reassure—her husband or herself?) "She's a strong girl, you know that..."

Before he can say anything in reply, however, Jack is forced to slam on the brakes to avoid a large crowd in front of Casper High. They've gathered around the statue of Phantom, milling about in what seems to be excitement. The two of them share a glance before Jack throws the RV into park, understanding the message— _just a minute. Then home to Jazz._

Jack's large form easily makes a path to the front, but both of them stop short at what they see. Earlier that day, not three hours ago, it had been bare...beautifully crafted, haunting in the way Phantom seemed to watch over them all—but simple stone.

But  _now._

There are dozens of objects scattered around the base of the statue. Chief among them is a large piece of what looks like ice, carved artfully into what may be the most perfect sculpture Maddie has ever seen. When she touches it, it feels like ice; it looks like ice; yet in the May heat, it is not melting.

She realizes that these must be from the ghosts, come to pay their respects...and she doesn't think she's seen anything so touching in her life. She doesn't understand ghosts, their society and relationships and emotions...but this.

_This._

She notices the engraving, now, when she had not before. It's simple, at the base of the statue; the ghosts have been careful to lay their offerings so as not to block it.

_Danny Phantom_

  


_In loving memory of a true hero_ __  
_May he find peace beneath the stars_   
And soar among them forever

Maddie doesn't realize she's crying until she feels the tears hit her outstretched arm. She's reaching out to brush her fingers against the statue, as if touching this stone representation of Phantom will give her all the answers, will bring him back to the town he loved so much.  _Why_ did he save those people when he knew it would kill him?  _Why_  did he seem to care so much for her and Jack? Why, why,  _why..._

(She'll never know, and that will haunt her forever.)

"He wouldn't like this..." Valerie's voice is quiet and unexpected; Maddie spins around to see the girl staring up at Phantom's stone face. (So, so young...) "He...he didn't do gaudy...he would have wanted something small..."

And Maddie doesn't know why, barely knows anything about Phantom and the boy he truly was...but she finds that she agrees.

.

(Only later does she remember the strangely large space between the name and epitaph, but she doesn't think to wonder what it might mean.)

.

.

She's planning to tell Jazz about the memorial, ask her if she wants to go once the crowds have thinned.

(Of course, she never gets the chance.)

Her daughter is collapsed on the floor of Danny's room, huddled into a tight ball and staring at nothing as she sobs. Maddie rushes to her, all thoughts of Phantom or ghosts or  _anything_  banished from her mind. She's reeling with emotion, but that does not matter. Jazz is hurting, Jazz is  _hysterical_...and Maddie can't stand it anymore. The lies, the secrets, whatever Jazz and Vlad and everyone else are keeping from them...

It hurts.

It hurts everyone.

And it just...it needs to stop.

(But she can't even imagine the truth. She can't possibly be prepared.)

"Please, Jazz, what's wrong? What are you not telling us?"

The answer, of course, sends her world crashing down.

.

.

.

This cannot be happening.

It's...impossible.

No.

_No!_

A scream tears from her throat, full of emotions that have never been named. Danny...

_Danny..._

Her baby boy...

( _Dead?)_

.

.

.

And then Jazz tells them, in a terrified wisp of a voice, that they have been hunting their own son for nearly a year.

They never knew... _They never knew..._

But that doesn't excuse it, doesn't excuse  _anything,_  because—because—

Phantom is Fenton is Danny is Daniel James Fenton, the tiny baby with the big blue eyes and the wide, gummy smile—

(the ghost boy with the strangely familiar face that only ever shot at them  _once,_  long ago)

—the toddler in the swing, squealing for Mommy to push him higher because he wanted to fly to the moon—

(the ghost boy who insisted he was innocent, dodging their ectoguns while keeping them safe from the true danger)

—the grade schooler who told Jazz he'd do his own science homework but let Mommy help because  _she's the best_ —

(the ghost boy who stole their equipment  _to defeat the other ghosts_  and screwed up sometimes  _because he was only ever a child)_

—the high school student who missed his curfew and struggled in his classes and shirked his chores because he was sacrificing everything— _everything—_ to keep the city safe—

(the ghost boy whom everyone hated  _but who kept on saving lives anyway_ )

—the hero who dropped everything, ignored a debilitating illness, to save his best friend—

(and the boy who gave him hell)

—from a ravenous fire—

(knowing he could die)

—but going in anyway—

(because that's what heroes do)

—and he, more than anyone she's ever known—

He's a hero.

She just never realized it until it was far too late.

.

.

.

.

_What kind of mother is she?_

.

.

.

.

It's over. Everything has ground to a halt, the world has stopped in abject horror, because her baby with the adorable smile and the nervous laugh and the bright eyes and the thick, beautiful hair is gone and dead forever.  _And it's her fault._

(And there's not anything she can do about it, no matter how hard she tries.)

Danny is Phantom is her son is the ghost boy is her pride and joy is the creature she was eager to dissect is  _Danny_  is—

She doesn't even have the strength to scream anymore. She collapses to the side, hitting something (maybe Jack, maybe Jazz, maybe the floor, maybe the  _Ghost Zone_ for all she knows) as she's lost to her own misery.

Danny...hated her, surely. His own mother— _his own mother—_ threatened to kill him every chance she got,  _shot_  at him and _trapped_  him and didn't even notice when he was  _half-killed_  by her own damn machine—

She wants to go destroy the Portal, right now,  _right this second,_  as if that will do anything. That's what started this, started _everything_ —if she and Jack hadn't been so absorbed in ghost hunting, hadn't been so  _blind—_

All at once, she feels a pair of small arms wrap around her. It's Jazz, her own voice catching as she sobs. "He...he doesn't hate you...didn't blame you for anything...always said it was  _his_  fault for keeping it a secret..."

This does nothing— _less_ than nothing—to calm her, because she's his mother and  _she should have known._  She should have recognized the warnings for what they were, not normal teenage problems and  _certainly_  not something he could handle on his own, as he so often claimed—

She doesn't have the strength to sob, but she's shaking violently and tears are pooling on the floor beneath her; she's wrapped her arms around herself, around Jack, around Jazz, but there should be four of them _._

He's not there, will never be there again,

and the only person she can blame is herself.

.

.

.

If this is Hell, if this is eternal damnation for the crimes she's committed against her own flesh and blood, she can only hope that Danny is somewhere else, safe and happy and at  _peace._

He didn't get enough of it in life, didn't get _nearly_ enough, and it's her fault.

All her fault.

Everything...

.

.

.

She's seeing him everywhere she looks, now, in everything she knows. The NASA posters—ever since he knew what they were, he wanted to be an astronaut—the crumpled t-shirt that didn't quite make it to the laundry basket—likely because he was too tired to tidy up— _an ectogun under the bed—_

She can't—it's—she—

Danny...

_Danny..._

.

.

.

"He...didn't blame you...for anything..."

Jazz's small voice, again, breaks her out of her crumbling mind. She stares up at her daughter, begging for answers and solutions that she knows can never happen. This isn't a nightmare, and this isn't a fairy tale; she isn't going to wake up, and there's no happily ever after. Nothing is ever going to make this right.

Suddenly, his last words— _Danny's final words to his ungrateful horrible parents—_ spring to mind. She can almost see him say it, his face and voice twisted in agony  _(oh God her baby boy was crushed to pieces and lived long enough to—)_ : "I'm so sorry...please don't be mad..."

Why would she be mad? Why would she  _ever_  be mad? He's...he's a hero...a better person than she could ever be...

(And he had died because of it, because the hero had no one to help him when he needed saving.)

She can't possibly be mad...there's nothing to be angry about.

He did nothing wrong...

There's...there's nothing for her to forgive...

.

.

.

.

_(She just hopes he'll be able to forgive them one day.)_

.

.

.

.

It wasn't there a moment ago, she thinks...but nothing is making sense right now.

_Danny. Gone. Dying thinking his parents hated him, thinking he had done wrong and they would be angry with him for it..._

It's a piece of paper, small, folded in half and on the ground near her. She reaches toward it, slowly, as if it may burst into flames and kill her on impact.

(That'd be justice. Maybe then...maybe Danny might forgive her for being the worst mother possible.)

But it's only a normal piece of paper, a sheet of looseleaf torn in half. She unfolds it slowly, blinking desperately to see clearly enough. It's...it's Danny's distinctive, spiky handwriting, and she can't tear her eyes away from it long after she's done reading.

 

_I love you guys so much...thank you, for everything. You're the best family I could have ever hoped for._

_Love always,_

_Danny_

 

 


	5. t h e t e a c h e r

_His students, always, have been the most important part of his career and of his life…and he's always sworn to himself that he'd shield them from harm in any way possible._

* * *

He's always admired Danny Phantom.

No matter what the Fentons say, what the press claims, what every dollar in property damage shows—he sees something other than malice in the boy's eyes when he scares people away during his stand-offs with other ghosts. He sees fear, and determination, and it doesn't take Lancer long to realize that he's making sure nobody is around to get caught in the cross-fire. He sees the way he only allows shots to miss him when he's sure they won't hit someone else—someone human, someone  _terrestrial_ for whom the ectoplasmic energy could be fatal. He sees the way Phantom does everything he can to keep the city free of ghosts—screwing up sometimes, yes, but who in any world is perfect?—and protects the people with his every breath.

It's ironic, then, that Amity Park's first fatality due to a ghost attack is Phantom himself.

He is counting and recounting his students as the school burns—as far away from the building as they can get—and the worry choking his throat only grows as he comes up one short each time. Daniel Fenton, he knows, is home sick with that awful flu, but there are twenty-three children in his class, and he is only coming up with twenty-one.

It's only when Sam screams, and Dash's face turns white as a sheet, that he realizes exactly what must have happened.

He's not fast enough to catch the football player as he sprints toward the school like hell itself is at his heels, but it's only moments after Dash disappears that there's a burst of activity from the roof of the school. It's Phantom, come from nowhere, shaking and pale and gaunt but holding onto Tucker Foley with an iron grip.

The boy is burned—horribly burned, from what Lancer can see, though he is quickly surrounded by his friend and the paramedics, shielding him from view. But his eyes are open, and he is moving, speaking quietly with the others, so he is…he is alive. Not well, but alive, and that is far more than Lancer had been hoping for in those few horrifying moments.

But now he only has eyes for the school—where Dash Baxter has disappeared into the inferno to try and save Tucker. He never would have thought it of the boy—heroic though he may be on the football field, he's never seemed like the hero type in the same way as Phantom. But, he realizes, perhaps life-and-death situations change people this much.

(He just wishes his students didn't have to go through this to realize their true potential.)

Kwan is terrified, half-yelling at a clearly ill Phantom that his best friend is still inside the school. And Lancer knows Kwan is justified in doing so—Phantom is naturally so pale, so thin, that it would not be immediately obvious to someone that he is sick…and when has the ghost not thrown his entire being into saving someone? But Lancer has been a teacher for a very long time, now, and he can tell when students are not feeling well. This, clearly, is one of those times.

Phantom's eyes aren't as piercing as they have been these past year; Lancer didn't miss his less-than-graceful landing when he carried Tucker to safety; his hands are already shaking from over-exertion as he nods tersely to Kwan…but it's a scarce few moments before he is heading back into the building as fast as he can.

 _He's running,_ and that, more than anything else, tells Lancer that Phantom is not all right. Ghosts—they fly, everywhere, always, and most don't seem to have legs at all. Phantom does, evidently, though he usually swaps them out for that wisp of a tail that allows him to move even faster toward or away from a dangerous situation.

The fact that he's a scrawny ghost with such a human image, with chicken legs and a face that looks barely older than his students', rattles Lancer to the core, and he half-opens his mouth, wishing to call Phantom back, say that someone else can go in his stead. The clearly ill ghost (who looks, more than anything, like he has caught the flu that's ravaging the  _humans_  of Amity Park) has no business rushing into a burning building after someone, no matter how young, no matter how reckless.

But it's too late, and that flash of white hair has ducked through the hole in the wall, and William Lancer never sees Danny Phantom again.

.

.

.

.

He visits his students in the hospital, the next week—it may be odd, but he finds himself anxious and jittery, the next several days, with nothing to do in his small house but spend time with his books and his dog, a huge, loveable pit bull whose favorite thing in the world is to curl up on his feet and doze off exactly when he has decided to do something else. He is not used to sitting around doing so little—even in the summer months, he vacations, does administrative work for the school and for the entire district, keeps himself  _busy_.

But his school is smoking rubble now strewn across the ground, and Ishiyama is still tallying the students and the faculty to make sure everyone made it out alive—everyone but Phantom, that is. Lancer saw Dash's face when he left the building at last—came out alive when they had all but given up hope.

He made it out alive with sooty hair and charred palms and an unsteady gait, but his heart was beating and his lungs drew in breath, and that, more than anything, brought staggering relief to the rest of the student body. The fact that Phantom did not return with him was inconsequential at first; Lancer assumed he had simply run off the other way, wishing to avoid the media, the rest of the students…he probably wanted to go rest up, sleep off whatever ghostly (human) disease he had caught.

But when he saw the tears staining Dash's cheeks, when he caught wind of the words that made Tucker vomit and Sam scream and Jazz Fenton nearly pass out—he—

What is he supposed to think? That a ghost is able to die?

That's impossible—should be impossible on  _principle_ —but it does not clash with his mental image of Phantom as much as it should. The running, and the eyes, and the haggard face that agreed to go back in with barely a moment's hesitation—

Lancer spent that night poring over pictures of Danny Phantom on the internet, and came to a sickening realization of exactly how young the ghost looks.

A freshman—sophomore at most, he would estimate, though without an exact estimate of his height it's a bit harder to tell. But his cocky grin speaks volumes of his youth, even if his selflessness and courage say otherwise…

It's a puzzle—and Lancer can't quite discard the disturbing thought in the back of his mind that he's seen that face before somewhere else—and he needs a distraction from it, so he decides to visit Tucker Foley and Dash Baxter in the hospital.

The former is nearly non-responsive; no matter how much he and Fenton enjoy slacking off in class, passing notes and speaking in quiet undertones together, he clearly doesn't have any interest in speaking with Lancer. There's a haunted, grieving pain in his eyes (and Lancer is reminded uncomfortably of Kwan's face, when Dash was inside the school for much longer than he should have been) that he does not in any way know how to deal with…so he only leaves his student with a small package of his own favorite chocolate, and a quiet wish that he feels better soon.

(He pretends not to hear the sob from behind him on his way out, though it wrenches his heart to hear it.)

Dash isn't much better, and Lancer starts to wonder whether his visit may be doing more harm than good. The boy's hands are scorched, much worse than the first degree burns across much -of his body; his palms are burned away nearly down to the bone, and he explains quietly—a word never before associated with him—that he will need skin grafts, at some point, but not now, probably. It doesn't matter, he says, and his eyes are downcast, staring blankly at the foot of his bed.

Lancer knows football season is upon them, knows how much the sport means to Dash, and knows there is something else going on here. But it's something he shouldn't ask—not now, when the scars are so raw—and instead, he asks, very quietly, "How did you burn your hands so badly?"

He thought it would be a safer question than anything else, and anyway, he's honestly curious, because the wounds are so severe compared to the rest. But Dash flinches violently, and his eyes are far away; it's only several moments later that he replies—"Phantom…he was crushed, by—by some lockers. That fell, from the second floor. I thought—I tried to lift them, get him out."

The rest of the story is clear all over his face—it wasn't enough, and Phantom was gone anyway, and what could Dash have done? Absolutely nothing, despite his best effort, and Lancer can see the guilt all over his face even as he struggles to reply. The boy's  _openness,_  above all, is shocking to behold, because only last week, Dash would have eschewed speaking with his teacher even about school—but now he's speaking openly, plainly, of things that clearly cause him great distress.

"It wasn't your fault," he says at last, because this, at least, is the truth. It is, in part (because if Tucker had never ended up in his locker, none of them would have been in danger in the first place), but none of them could have known the circumstances that arose scarce minutes later, and such awful combination of circumstances and bad luck cannot be blamed on anyone.

(The fact remains, though, that the ghost boy is dead and gone.)

Dash scoffs, still not meeting Lancer's eyes, and his fingers twitch weakly against their bindings, fighting the ruined nerves. "That's what he said, too. He fucking _thanked_ me, you know? He was dying, and he—I'm the world's biggest ass, and he died to save me, and I don't care what anyone says, it's  _my fault he's dead."_

(Lancer leaves soon after, a lump in his throat and tears in his eyes, and pretends not to hear Dash's shuddering breaths as he attempts to hold himself together…pretends not to notice the tears on Sam Manson's face as she walks by, only nodding in respect to her as she clutches her purse strap tighter, turning her face away.)

There's something going on here, he knows, but it's not yet his business to pry, and these teenagers are hurting in ways beyond anyone's help.

(He doesn't know what to do, and it's killing him.)

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It's only later that he realizes—Phantom wasn't killed instantly, because how could he have given his last words to the city; how could he have thanked Dash?

(How could he have possibly stayed coherent through the agony, enough to apologize—for  _god knows what,_  that boy has done more for the city than anyone has in decades—enough to thank Dash, for…

For what?)

There's a missing piece, and it struggles to enter the forefront of Lancer's mind, but he does not have the time—after all, the mayor has procured a beautiful statue of Phantom and is requesting it's set up in front of the school, which means there must be a memorial and the rubble must be cleared faster and—

He forgets to think about Phantom properly until more than a week after the ceremony. The trailers are finally coming in from Chicago, and they've scraped together enough equipment to hold classes, and he's just figuring out how to piece together a lesson plan that will keep them relatively on track but not rush through things...this is when he truly remembers that Phantom isn't here anymore.

He feels guilty for forgetting—after all, the ghost has been such a staple of their everyday life that he feels like the loss of his presence should be overwhelmingly strange. But it isn't—at least, not yet, and he's on tenterhooks, waiting for the next ghost attack to come…and, after all, who will defend them now?

(But the more pressing question is this: it has been nearly a month since the dragon, so why have there been no attacks since then?)

.

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Nothing is making sense anymore.

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Classes start the next week, and the October wind is brisk as his normal first hour sophomore class files into the trailer, looking around cautiously at their new classroom. He does a quick headcount out of habit, and comes up with twenty-two—Daniel Fenton is late, again.

He barely holds in a scoff as the students sit down. So much has changed in the past month, but some things, at least, will never change.

But there's something strange going on with the boy's friends. Neither look like they have slept a wink since the fire, though Tucker's burns are well on their way to healing and he is clearly out of any danger, even if he will have scars to show for it. But they have always— _always_ , they sat one seat apart, saving the middle for Daniel when he inevitably flew into class ten minutes after the bell, homework half-done and backpack askew. But today they sit directly next to each other, and Sam looks near tears as she stares determinedly down at the scratched tabletop that substitutes for a desk. Tucker is silent, too, and he squeezes his friend's shoulder gently as he takes his seat in the corner, scooting his chair a little closer as if to offer comfort.

Dash is seated across the room, but his eyes are flickering around as if waiting for someone to appear. Lancer would have guessed, two months ago, that he was looking for another target, another smaller boy to pick on to entertain his friends. But Lancer can see the careful bandages still wrapped around his hands, the dark circles around his eyes, and thinks it likely that he's merely jumpy, waiting, perhaps, for the ghost dragon to appear again.

(Mayor Masters made an announcement, weeks ago—the dragon has been eliminated permanently by the Guys in White, and there is nothing left to worry about.)

(But Lancer can't help but think—how many ghosts are still in the Ghost Zone, waiting for their time to strike?)

But Dash looks like hell, and Sam and Tucker look even worse; and as he does another sweep of the classroom, he sees that Valerie Gray is different as well, for she tucks her backpack close to her feet protectively, and there is something metallic and high-tech wrapped around her wrist.

(She's always sat near the front, has always been one of his best students. But he sees her twist, once, to look at Sam and Tucker in the back…and her face crumples before she quickly turns back around, wiping at her face with both hands.)

She, too, looks frazzled; her hair is messily pulled back, unwashed, and her eyes are dulled as her hands finally fall, shaking, to the desktop.

He wants—needs—to know, but he cannot ask now, for there is a classroom full of students who are shaken up by the fire, trying to adjust to this new system, but clearly not traumatized by whatever has affected these four. So he resolves to corner them later—separately, if he can, though he suspects Foley and Manson will be inseparable ( _where is Fenton?_ )—and ask what is wrong, whether they need to speak to the psychologist the mayor has sent to the school, free of charge, to counsel anyone who may be having trouble coping with the tragedy.

It's a thoughtful gesture from a man Lancer has always considered cold—but when Masters met with him and Ishiyama last week, the day after the memorial, he seemed honestly shaken by all that has happened. It's odd—he was always a very vocal opponent of Danny Phantom—but, Lancer supposes, even the Fentons seemed shell-shocked in the wake of the fire. After all, whatever your opinion of the ghost boy, he saved two lives in that fire by sacrificing his own.

(He only wishes the child hadn't needed to  _die_  to gain the full respect he deserves.)

But he has students here, and class is due to start in mere moments, so he breathes in deeply, moving toward the old, cracked chalkboard, and does his best to put on a smile for them. He's the adult, here—he needs to be in control.

He will help them in any way he can, even if it's only teaching them everything they never needed to know about Shakespearean sonnets.

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He's been planning this out, throughout class—which of them should he speak to first? He imagines that Dash, after the incident in the hospital, will be loath to speak to him again, especially in front of his friends, and he is proven right; as soon as the clock on the wall turns over to the end of the hour, he has picked up his bag gingerly by the elbow and is out the door before any of his friends have even packed their bags.

Sam and Tucker, similarly, seem to have no interest in speaking to him—or to anyone. Both of them have been able to contain whatever emotions are overwhelming them, but it's obviously a close thing; Sam's eyes are still brighter than they should be as she stands up, and Tucker's hands are trembling badly as he packs his bag.

Soon, they are out the door as well.

He sighs, resigning himself to cornering them later, when he finds Valerie standing in front of him, metal glinting off her wrist and steel flashing in her eyes. Lancer raises an eyebrow, wondering what could have provoked this confrontational mood, but only asks mildly, "What can I help you with?"

She seems to deflate, slowly, as if only just realizing what she's doing. "I…I'm going to need to be excused from class, sometimes," she says, and she glances over her shoulder, ensuring the classroom is empty. "If there's a ghost attack."

Lancer blinks at her, feeling as if he's missed a step here, because he's not sure how these two things are correlated at all. "Excuse me?"

She breathes a heavy sigh through her nose, glaring at some point to Lancer's left as she crosses her arms defensively. "I'm a ghost hunter," she says, her voice low, as if she didn't want to tell him this and doesn't want anyone else to hear. And before Lancer can register anything but surprise, before he can even  _think_ of saying anything, she continues—"Mister Masters has asked me to handle any ghost attacks on the city now that—now that Phantom is gone, so if any show up I'm going to have to take care of it, even if it's in the middle of class."

Lancer simply continues to blink at her; something begins to churn in the back of his mind, but he doesn't give it the chance to take form. "Why you?" he blurts, and perhaps it isn't the most pertinent question, but he's just been told his fifteen-year-old student is putting herself on the front lines of this battle with the supernatural, and he supposes he's allowed some measure of shock. "Couldn't the Fentons take care of it?"

She raises an eyebrow at him even as her jaw clenches, her face pale. "The Fentons have sworn off ghost hunting, I thought you'd heard."

 _What?_  Jack Fenton— _Maddie_ Fenton—leaving behind all of their invaluable research, all of the potential test subjects? He doesn't know them well, but he thinks he knows them well enough to know that the supernatural is their passion, their lifeblood, and something they would  _never,_  under any circumstances, leave behind.

_What is going on here?_

But he supposes Valerie is not the one to ask, and anyhow, he has Jasmine in his AP English class this afternoon…he could ask her then, if he were so inclined. Valerie doesn't seem willing to explain, anyway; if anything, her rigid back and clenched jaw show she is staving off tears just as much as Sam was, earlier. "I suppose that can be arranged," he agrees, because who is he to argue, when not two hours ago he was worrying about a repeat attack? "I have to tell you, though, be careful. This isn't some sort of game."

She gives him a scathing look, her eyes full of sudden fury; she bites out,  _"I know,"_  before turning sharply on her heel and slamming the trailer door behind her.

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It's not until much later that he realizes—Daniel never came to class.

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It's not such a strange occurrence, all things considered, because the boy has missed classes—entire  _days_ —before with no excuse of absence note or phone call from his parents. He always came in the next day though, with a lopsided smile and a half-assed excuse, and took whatever demerit or detention he was handed with a careless shrug.

(More often than not, he skipped out on detention as well, just as he "visited the bathroom" for half an hour every other day in class. It irritated Lancer to no end, but a sickening sense of  _wrong_  is wrapping around his heart, and he thinks he'd be happy to be blown off by the boy, if only he were here.)

But Tuesday comes, and Sam's tired eyes are still red, and Valerie keeps one eye, always, on the tracker encircling her wrist, and Daniel Fenton does not come to class.

"Mister Foley?" he calls as the bell rings, and though the boy has clearly been doing his best to get out the door before Lancer could stop him, he sighs heavily and steps toward the front. Sam joins him, and Lancer isn't surprised—the two  _(three)_ of them are together, always, and perhaps that is why Daniel's absence has shaken him so terribly.

(What is going on here?)

"I hope your recovery is going well?" he asks awkwardly after several moments of silence, during which Sam glares resolutely at the ground and Tucker stares somewhere past Lancer's right shoulder. "You look much better than you did in the hospital."

Tucker gives him a half-shrug, his backpack dangling from one shoulder as he still refuses to meet his eyes. "All right, I guess," he mumbles, not really an answer at all, and ye his hand clutches the strap ever-tighter.

"I think…there's no point in asking either of you if you're all right," Lancer says, once it's clear nothing else is forthcoming. Sam flinches, though she clearly tries to hide it, and Lancer knows better than to bring it up. "I don't know what's going on, but I want you to know that if there's anything any of us can do, I would be happy to help. You just need to ask."

Sam scoffs, then, a mirthless sound that's deadened and so much more real than her goth façade. "We'll definitely do that, Mister Lancer," she says, the first time she's spoken up since school started again, sarcasm dripping from her every word.

Lancer knows he needs to ask after their friend, even though both of them are clearly itching to sprint out the door, unwilling to speak to him. "Where is Daniel?" he finally asks, because he needs to know—both for his duty as an administrator (for he has received no phone calls from the Fentons, and Jasmine was all but catatonic in class yesterday) and for himself. "I know he's not the most punctual student, but usually one of you has an excuse ready to hand to me."

He meant it as a light joke, perhaps not to make them laugh, but to let them know that he's not upset about it…not really. But Sam's jaw clenches so hard that Lancer is sure she's biting her tongue to keep the tears at bay, and Tucker swallows thickly, his grip only tightening on his backpack. Something is so wrong here, but neither of them break the silence, and Lancer eventually dismisses them, with a reminder that they're allowed to ask for help.

(Even if he's certain they never will.)

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Thursday brings a break in the monotony; there's a small light blinking from the front row—from Valerie's tracker—and it's mere moments before her hand shoots into the air, her sharp eyes meeting his.

"Mister Lancer, I need to use the bathroom."

It's obviously a cover for her ghost-hunting duties, and he sighs before dismissing her—she nods minutely at him before all but running out of the trailer. Sam's eyes are sharper, more focused, than they have been this past week, and her gaze follows Valerie out the door. Tucker, also, is fiddling with something beneath the table (his PDA, but Lancer has long given up on confiscating them), a small frown marring his features before he leans over to Sam and whispers something in her ear.

He wants to ask them, but he has a classroom of students to teach, and anyhow, the familiarity of the scenario is jarring, because Valerie isn't the only student who's abruptly asked to leave the classroom in the middle of a lecture.

_(Where is Daniel Fenton?)_

He hasn't had the heart to corner Jasmine after class, even if it's the last hour of the day and he would need no excuse to do so. Whatever Sam and Tucker look like—hell twice over, for sure, but miles better than they did when Lancer saw them in the hospital—Jasmine looks a thousand times worse, and more than once, her friends have glanced at her nervously, taking diligent notes for her when she seems unable to do it herself.

But—how many times did Daniel raise his hand abruptly, in the middle of a lecture or discussion, and announce that he needed to go to the bathroom without really waiting for an answer? How often did Lancer think of refusing him, if only to see what he would do about it?

(How often, he realizes with cold horror, was there a ghost attack on the news that night?)

Daniel had no tracker wrapped around his thin wrist as Valerie does; though his parents are ( _were_ ) ghost hunters, he never showed even the slightest interest in the profession. Abhorred it, even, and rebuked it as his parents' fantasy and a waste of time…

But he can't help but recognize the similarities, and when Valerie comes back to class fifteen minutes later, looking rather out of breath but nodding slightly to Lancer as she takes her seat again, he blinks and has to bite his tongue to keep his questions down.

(It doesn't help that Sam corners Valerie, after class, just outside of the trailer, and though Lancer cannot hear their conversation it's clear they're talking about the hunt.)

(What is he missing?)

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That night, he turns on his computer, ignores the stack of paperwork waiting patiently for him, and searches  _ghost hunting_  without regard for sleep.

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Partway through, his search turns to  _Danny Phantom;_ he pulls out last year's yearbook to get a better look at Daniel Fenton's face; and his heart stutters to a stop.

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This can't be. It's—

Daniel is  _human_ , isn't he?—

( _Wasn't he?)_

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There is no one he can possibly ask about this—no one at all, because the resident ghost experts haven't been seen in days, and are Daniel's parents besides; Tucker and Sam and Jasmine have made it abundantly clear that they have no desire to speak to him…

Dash, Valerie, Mayor Masters…he has his suspicions, but no proof that they know anything at all, and this idea is so absurd, so…

It's ridiculous, but why does it make so much sense?

The second week of school comes around, and Daniel still hasn't come to class; nobody says anything (the looks on his friends' faces deter any questions they might have asked, after all), but there's an uneasy sense of growing panic penetrating his first-hour classroom.

Daniel is truant, but never for so long. He's flippant about school, but always makes at least a show of effort…

(Lancer can't keep the image of Danny Phantom out of his head—for when he took the picture to Paint and colored the hair black, the eyes blue, he was the spitting image of his missing student.)

Sam and Tucker are…better, if slightly less catatonic and hysterical can count for anything. They still don't participate in class, but both are clearly making an effort to get back into some sort of routine, something…something familiar.

(Jasmine is as well, to a lesser extent, because too often her eyes are far away and pained and shot through with red. She's been crying, and losing sleep, and Lancer knows that nothing short of the worst tragedy of her life could do this to his strongest, brightest student.)

His students worry, mutter amongst themselves when Sam and Tucker, again, do not save a seat for their friend, and put their heads together, speaking too quietly for anyone to hear. But they are not the only ones who are different; Valerie, of course, has taken over Daniel's sudden bursts of bathroom breaks, and Dash has not even vaguely begun bullying anyone at all…

(He's also quit the football team, still bears terrible wounds upon his hands, and Lancer knows that whatever happened inside that burning school, it has scarred the boy forever.)

Everyone is still reeling from the fire, from Phantom's death ( _Fenton_ —and he realizes, now, how eerily similar the names sound), but most of his students have been able to adjust. And when he considers the fact that Dash has always been his cockiest student, that Valerie and Sam and Jasmine have been some of the strongest…

His mind comes to the inevitable conclusion, even as his heart screams at him to find a different answer.

It's been two weeks since classes started, and he has stopped watching the door with half an eye, waiting for Daniel to come flying in, out of breath, with a half-smile and a half-assed apology on his lips. He's stopped waiting for an explanation from one of his students; he's stopped waiting for someone— _anyone_ —to prove him wrong.

He's stopped pretending everything is okay, because it clearly is not, and right now he needs to help his students figure out how they will live the rest of their lives without Daniel Fenton.

Because the boy was something to everyone in this class—whether he was the weird kid who always seemed to melt into the background, or the scrawny boy with the chicken legs and the narrow shoulders who was too easy to stuff into a locker, or—or—

 _The town hero,_ because that's what he was, and Lancer feels that it would dishonor the boy's memory to remember him as anything but.

He cannot ask, but he knows nonetheless, and so is not surprised when the truth eventually comes out.

Daniel hasn't been to class since the fire, and Daniel always left in the middle of class just like Valerie (and it's an open secret of his class, now, that she's a ghost hunter), and Daniel wasn't visually accounted for after the fire, because his family swore he was home sick with the flu…

( _Phantom had been ready to keel over, clearly nauseous and light-headed and far too sick to be saving lives that day_ )

Most of his students know the truth as well, he thinks, by the time Mayor Masters finally makes an announcement at Casper High two months after the fire, and…

As Jasmine is conspicuously absent, and Sam and Tucker cling to each other like they're the only ones holding the world together, the mayor tells them all with tired eyes and a heavy voice that Danny Phantom was Danny Fenton, that—

That a fifteen-year-old boy is dead, because a city relied on him far too much…because nobody even considered that he was anything less than the hero they all assumed he would be.

(He was a hero.)

(Just not an invincible one from all the stories.)

Lancer is humbled, but not surprised, by the announcement, and wipes his eyes a few too many times that day, and does his best to stay strong for his students, even as their whole world shatters around them.

(Not everyone liked Danny Fenton—some didn't even  _know_  him—but every student in this school knew Danny Phantom, knew him like a constant held in each of their hearts, a stronghold and a promise and a savior for each citizen of Amity Park.)

(Now he is gone, and every one of them is feeling that emptiness ripped anew.)

Classes are dismissed early that day, because the students are shell-shocked, and the teachers are shell-shocked, and nobody is in any sort of mindset for learning. So Lancer leaves his trailer early, leaving every ungraded assignment and everything else he has to do behind on his battered desk, and walks slowly toward the memorial, out on the front lawn of the school grounds.

The ghosts' gifts are still there, arranged like an honor guard around the statue, and it takes everything Lancer has to stare up at Phantom's  _(Fenton's)_  face, grinning smugly and determined to protect his city at…

…At any cost.

And Lancer wonders, now, how could he not have known? How could  _none_ of them have known, that their hero was far too young, and far too vulnerable, and—

 _He was only a child,_ and now he is dead, and Lancer—he—

He wipes his hands across his face but feels guilty for it, because Daniel deserves his grief—he deserves everything and more that this town can give him...

(He deserved their protection in return when he needed it the most, but where were they?)

Daniel was only a boy, but Lancer feels so—so  _inadequate,_  standing before this beautiful memorial to his most frustrating student, standing over the earth where his charred remains (gods above he _cannot do this)_  were laid to rest forever—

This—this is too much, and he closes his eyes, blocks this jarring memory of everything he could have done—everything he didn't do—

Everything nobody did to repay this boy, who was only too happy to die for the people he swore to protect.

("He fucking  _thanked_ me, you know?")

He cannot bear it, and so blinds himself, and feels awful for it because doesn't Daniel deserve this much from him and from all the rest, at least?

He wants to leave the statue behind, but gives one last glance to the boy's epitaph, written by his—his friends, or his sister, or—

And it is different, now—it fills in that empty space in the marble and in their hearts, and it makes too much sense, and Lancer nearly breaks then and there:

 

 _Danny Phantom_ _  
_ _Daniel James Fenton_

 _In loving memory of a true hero_ __  
_May he find peace beneath the stars_   
And soar among them forever

 

The tears flow freely—he can't stop them, and he doesn't try; he only whispers a wretched  _thank you_ (too late too little  _you could have done more_ ) before choking and turning away.

 


End file.
